| Falling Bodies | |||||||||||
| I have one hair in my head There aren't so many in the carafe I have a fly in my nose there are two in the calash Turn turn the wheel to hoist the beggars atop the chimneys The women will watch it The children will kill it Turn turn the wheel to carve up the Saint-Cyrians their flesh will make bait for Newfoundland's fish and it'll be an unlucky year I shook an idiot's hand and a forget-me-not grew in my hand and that's why it's as hot as the inside of a gas pipe that swallows pass into but never emerge from for fear of being turned into incandescent burners Whether the lines on the floor zigzag drunk or whether the ladders collapse under those that brave them the noise from the street will clunk like a convict's sack and desolate passersby will clap their hands over their ears and their pregnant wives' hysterics will throw the hotel rooms' tables off balance | |||||||||||
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