Through which the names pass

clean as bullets.

I’m here to do a job.

The trees flicker

by way of traffic,


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—