Les Molles

In the end, some are incurable. They use lint to

mop up the leaking, or apply cold poultices.

Creeping mess can be cleared up with pink paste or

trapped in sawdust and swept.

Blood can pool from their sitting and standing, but

they avoid clots by regular shaking, and the

sucking of sherbet.

Blue blue for the sky, white for the walls, apricot

for glass and woodwork.

They devise a timetable by casting lots. They

scrabble around in the dirt for clues.

Seven is too magical a number to hold, but the soft

ones like to handle it constantly.

They polish its fine teak head, drive theories

through its shaft and talk into the early hours

about how it can resemble an ax, or sex, and how

it solves, as well as creates, all conundr/ums/a.

They admire their creosoted fence for protection

and their own faces in its misaligned hasp.

A Mrs. Milkwater puts baby brushes to soak in milk

and water (and vinegar). Her sons are successful

barbers.

At precisely midnight the blue lights go out. The

red lights stay home.