Parading

Speak of the world’s own change. Though we cannot conceive

Slogging, wobbling,

though the watchfires have been doused

On the news every day people are standing up screaming

That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming

Reduce yourself to a moving mouth, a solemn happiness

And when the flying is flown and the heart’s

a fixed point I couldn’t seem to advance on,

Such treasure in the air,

this is pigment from a bug, this is pigment