La Maid and la

and la fort that das the job and la pushpin les penses los river of sleep that we are coming out of older, around out eyes,

—what a firm world we have (14)

clapping, and the radio. How I look to you, in the iron eye. The beginning of a thing is my eye signing, is like turning over the surface of words. Flat yes flat. But to look at you is just. I'm like someone else with my dress on and you are someone too tonight. Who says things. Who listens in.

He tells me to move (13)

in my sleep and I do. The better to hulk about in the snow, a small white dog drawing the leash. As long as moths fling at the fixtures, as with something starting to burn. A paperboy bangs his hat on the stoop. This dark under a dress. This.

He lies (12)

there and there are the roses, tongues of roses and bugs inside. The raised lace curtains pertaining to roses, winter placings to top off a rose. The snow that spreads like a plate on the grass, on it the roses there are are there.