a nut tree of solitude
- it’s the apple of your eye
- it’s the quince of your eye
- it’s the tangerine of your eye
- it’s the plum of your eye

over the nut tree a stripped sky
in soft hues and tied with
9 broad golden-hooked plaits

but
everything very well-stretched
polished inside out like a
glassy wax-smoothed tarpaulin

only a sexless hoopoe
tolling the jingle bells and licking
the white bulrush hammer

blue ulcer with grassy keys