Our suppers stunned on the table
hold radios
hold
flasks of sound,
sharp intensities
bottled up for a time

I taste your imagination, authors,
and place it among cotton trees
whose white stuff perches,

cousins of the air

if the manner could be political
the high walls protect against disgust

the lady of blue glass
joined by
Pierrot, a griffin, papers, books,
the chilled correspondence, and
another woman whose futurist shape
suggests lines of the wind

on my desk

to awaken
the traffic would have to run into the radio