I’m not suggesting that you can’t draw a map, per se —
The days may not be fair, Berlin-qua-Cohen sings,
may be grab-bag blindbursts of hand movements,
occassional fade-in’s from white, and you’ve moved
either twenty or one hundred feet, and who knew?
I’m not suggesting you can’t draw a map, but we need
to come to some sort of order — that slow boil of fools
growing wise ain’t found in the coffee pot, the tea,
mettle, or fettle jot, neither kneenicked towards moon-in
haze-cloud light, or floorwashed ‘til the ground down
through to foreign feet is a clearviewed sight. But we need
something: the urbane Zeppelin with a three-story wine glass
hanging from the balloon, that breath of hopping ahead
a decade for friendship … shall I lift the lithographs to life?
What Do I Do With You?
