[The Listening Groom, Magritte, 1952]
Idle Fall to the Owl
The bridge mats the lips
and coats rolling pillars reticulate,
slap the first transport.
The pillars never
decline but stay long
into the night, black biscuit-
lumps flail, tending toward
the drunken flip-tick of an owl.
Green plastic reacts to empty clothes
beating on it; whenever they lob, no one of them pops
buttons. A dip and a drone of diesel, clotting
pustules of Christmas way over there,
sedimenting like laps of a forklift blanking
ridges. The farmer finally dismisses
the children who splay apples from branches.
Institutions deform. Eyes cough.
They are almost constipated.