A wolf came in.

            We said, "Look out,
            a wolf!" and tucked our cups
            into our ankles.

            A vaporous light
            channeled through the window
            and rendered everything pointillistic.

            And because there is lust there are heroes and fruit.
            The heroes are made of drums, televisions and algae.
            They wield swords and daybooks.
            The daybooks tick. The daybooks whine:
            ou se trouve ma petite tombeau?

            A few things have been gotten
            rid of. The sky seemed charred:
            ugly spheres floating about. A dog
            leaned against an oak tree when
            the eight-legged horse came down.

            It happens in town:
            some big rock chunk
            falls on someone, an axis
            for the entire thing, a desperation
            removing ourselves from the cold,
            pretending to be real. Then,