45*21

in this archway you are called Alice and she is Poala
there is no geometry where the figurative goes not flowing
the arches are a manifolded mirror, an ocean of peacock
a milk potion will create a cat without tail or with cattails a thousand cats
and you will become the king of the tall tail
a geometry of your own tree growing in a dream body
from the ocean bend on land a man creeps from behind a tree
you put the shiny silver scissors in a yellow purse
& with that red wig you belong to Nicole and she is Mary
it is read as you are reading it and the night closes in
shadows of archways and orange shrubs along mud road
on Garma show two splits in the egg, a steamer comes in
carving eggplant find an egg and salt shaker
these are fundamentals, architecture of an island hotel
called Garma and yet no death and no maiden, a peacock window
they call Giallo, my mother made those pictures missing
it is all in black and deep red, a nightmare of twin identities
she falls again and again from the stairs in the gallery even
symmetry between what we don't know and what might come later
drowned piano in an HP Lovecraft song
these clouds hang in severed evergreen