JOHN KEATS'S PORRIDGE
What’s in a field is parts (heads, arms like the photo in his studio) and the approach to models
even which illustrative “sketches” to keep, up partly to chance, the ivory dice on string or chain
loops over stone fingers, the Old Bailey’s too high to see into the pans up top.
A scythe notched on the inside, bottle opener for a phenomenologist, swings free of its
Lammas function, wheat prop with a line around the picture not plowed, the pen no plow.
Vase sherds embedded in curves like smashed eyeglasses are penile youths and Pegasus or any
forehorse on a shield drawn that’s to say curved, and curved, the effect of a Temple of Poseidon under
tinted lucite, otter diorama floating amid ice cakes, a study for the unscientific.
Saints carry loaves, reeds, Agnes and John, Barbey with a lobster or the pole with his head
in a napkin weighing Truth.
The joke was the bad sculptors made gas fittings, jets, cast baked fans till it
folded with the painting of plates, dipped gauze shepherdesses slip couture, though which gas
lit would be like blazing kleenex, the dipped torch near chained Beardsley male’s
tail (flames in a bunch like her grapes) to align a sensibility with a taste.
Cut the goat or cow’s horn in the wrong season and they bleed unstoppably.
There is no way to say how many threebladed knives are buried underground.
She found a penny in cracks between bricks in the road.
Prescind from the sound of propositions which even in translation are patently true, the
composition of esters depending on the alcohol remains, coconut, banana.
Tiepolo’s angel-arbor for a church ceiling drips musicales not any of them in jeans but as if.
They might as sardines do have imagined hearts inside the sealed tin.
There’s faery attached to any doorsill, what creatures eat out of platelike bowls.
and the skins when they come out of the earth having made a mistake while herding
are green, that fades after eating meat a while but starts off green as jasper around spots in a bloodstone.