Gate of Opening

Metronome, on gender, I believe you.

            On memory, I do not.

On desire—on transfiguration—

            The stars were lifted

like caskets. Every house became one

            house. He boarded up her door. The foal

got up, sat down. She banged and banged. Flowers

            shook in their vases. I’ve never been in love,

said the sand. A child draws into it with a stick.

            The desire for surprise,

the artist says, is an immature im-

            pulse. My head is locked in a box.