Gentle thumbs, feminine thumbs
Fondle my forehead like autumn chill
Imogene, so fair and dumb,
She grasps my thoughts until they’re shrunk
And sweeps the branches of my headache
Under her palm.
She makes it easy for my train to slide
Beyond my eyes, inside large Technicolor boxes
Piled up on villages of coal mines,
Population linen and chants,
And spinster daughters of cinder.
White is her element,
Her silence focused and concerned,
She knows her lullaby is here just for the summer
Then I will have to shoot my thoughts alone
Just like I did in century nineteen,
On my crème horse,
When people were dressed in chiffon,
Their hand bouquet gathering four fingers only,
Gold filaments kindly inviting me to tea,
Kindly inviting me to stay inside a nutshell,
Where cuckoos dare,
And there is no one else to hate.