Under those cumbersome lights. It was all too Present, too risible, too makeshift, a plane Without the i's dotted. Then it was eggs. Without tomatoes, we grew lonely. With grapes, we were afraid.
Pickles are slothful, and indignant.
They Hate being the sideshow. And in the drawer Beside the gas stove Is the old matchbook, the stone dry matches Quivering, in their attenuated rows.