They have gone
into the green hill, by doors without hinges,
or lifting city
manhole covers to tunnels
lined with grass,
their skin soft as grapes, their faces like apples.
The peacock
feather, its round eye, sees dancers underground.
The curved spot on this
apple is a fat camel, is a
fly’s shadow,
is the cry of a marigold. Looking hard,
I enter:
I am caught in the web of a gray apple,
I struggle inside
an immense apple of blowing sand,
I blossom
quietly from a window-box of apples.
For one man
there are seven beautiful ladies with buns
and happy faces
in yellow dresses with green sashes
to bring him
whiskey. The rungs of a ladder tell stories
to his friend.
Their voices like apples brighten in the wind.
Now they are dancing
with fiddles and ladies and trumpets
in the round
hill of the peacock, in the resounding hill.
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