Through which the names pass

clean as bullets.


I’m here to do a job.


The trees flicker

by way of traffic,


a-continuous

and as for hills: flax


crawls up in fists,

in curtains mud


does the opposite.

Say campus, garden, lobby.


Say cheese in the sculpture’s

chrome distortion,


an oversized screw

on its side. And what can’t be made


to scale, a button-hole

in the cloudless overhead?


General Verdigris jumps off

his horse and lifts a hand.


Ditto the flower minions

who seem also to be saying here


I am, here—