Lucie Brock-Broido

See, how she tucked her tiny spectacle
Behind the chimney bricks and sealed it shut

Against the indigo of company.  
In the Doumas Brothel Museum,

In the frayed blue purse,
                                        One silk grief ago.

His lemon feathered form wrapped
In soft strips of news once wetted down

With buttermilk, gentle not to bend a wing
Or break a brittle claw. Her mummery.  

Who will speak for you, century-canary
In your tin can purged of all its minerals.  

You are beautiful, grotesque. I am in this

                                          Freight and keep myself.  
I write home from Butte in mercury.

I take it back from you.               I am on my one.