I recall a miser’s

white goose

sold for naught.

I, too, have my jewels,

my contingency plan

winding down

to the goose-flesh of this world.

I have my hunter’s reflex,

my critical versions.

Gruff parcel, that Turko.

Soundless macabre, calculating.

Jeannetje smacks Octave across the lips.

I have my digitalis and black mittens,

my pasty-faced actresses.

Once, in a sailor suit, I ate an éclair.

Backstage at the ballet

I consulted a yellow skull,

a grapefruit really.

I disfigured somebody’s sandwich.

The waxworks don’t open until nine.

A stranger’s visiting card

blows off the bridge.

At first light I have my stepchild,

my white china basin,

therapeutic jostling of the toddler.

Suspicions are almost confirmed.

Denials are swiftly circulating.