How Rarely the Eternal Gets Enough Control over a Man
For the first time a small brain
has settled over Toronto.
Layers and layers of crustaceans are
sleeping with women.
Oh doors of eternity!
The image burned in my mind remains:
repeating the infinite gentleness
while we drink the coffee.
Living with one’s grandparents
rates poorly according to YYYY,
the magazine that analyzes handstands
and the fresh currents of doubt.
One merely has not to love
to be a totem pole in the dreams
of the orchids of Xochimilco.
Toronto’s tale of woe
sustained the Frogonian evening—
the intellectuals’ minds are moving around
in a strainer of eternity
as we sit together on the camel.
Love is a transaction
of the general and ephemeral.
I see heaven, full of receipts,
and the foreleg is blue.
art by EϟH
seed text: The Collected Poems of Kenneth Koch