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—