Antipholus Antipholus by Jeff Nagy

“He for all the world like a mannequin.”
said the phoenix as amnesiac then
went looting the dispensary and flew back
to hoot “who,” on top of its shredded scrapbook,

“in these scenes where the virgin dreamer leads a company
of apes to the gates of hell, as the portraits
in the hallway carry on their usual commerce
and said to each other, ‘He thinks today

he’d like to be a centaur and puts on his Sunday
crinoline.’” “It’s just that easy,” sang Echo in her B
type song. So then she sang, “No one calls me
Mister Tibbs but you.” As in its pitch

the mirror hurt itself again with human faces
after the wind shook like fresh Polaroids

of home, an unopened book waiting next to
other markers reserved for speech. Their colors were
there colors? Were those the trees barked
by the wind no smarter than it needs to be

and it was right through the disordered air
the sky lowered on tiny pulleys. It went on
like that for ages, but egregiously, and so on
with the aerostatic moon fairly tearing

up the afternoon but spectral, like
barrage balloons, largely implicated and
cutting the strings of clouds like kites
made of ice. Although the river candied

in the cold, uninhabited buildings keep
themselves warm listening to sea-wash

in the ventilation there was always
the easy protest of incomprehension in the public
square, a woman took us by the hand between
the nobby corals, a sieve for the valley of

her breath sounds like eels, knowing
and sinister, were dumbly slithering among
the pink crevasses, lidless augurs
awaiting the permission of ether from the stone

formations were roseate, and fountains, gummed
with droppings like liquid paper. But the sounds
were inexorably arranging themselves
into words like grooming monkeys, and so on

or “so at last as we came to life we arrived at love,”
a terminus, or an apartment, proximate but discrete.