To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question... --T.S. Eliot 1. Strange sky shadowed by sassafras Restless evening, cloud and moon; Three sit unmoving in a circle Await the midnight meat. Brother Bug hunkers Never teeters never topples Smiles with thirty-two teeth; P.Q., you silent mantis, Prismatic stars Your watchful eyes Refracting dilatory flies. I thrust six kooftah On my green stick Twirl them loose-wristed In the flame: Kooftah! Minced of meat and herb, Chicken egg and crumbled bun Rolled round and round Becoming balls Between the unguent palms. (Bug Bob: Your lips gleam in firelight; P.Q.: I imagine too Your secret lips gleaming.) Roasting kooftahs Spitting grease shrink smoke Assault Artemis. On to #2

2. I am growing antlers I am cloven hoofed I have harried ways And am frequently hounded; Yet, My name is not Actaeon: I do not peep at Deified fecundity. Low cloud, High moon -- Stars are also low You are low, too, P.Q., as the goose girl lays low fertile as an egg   3. High flat pile of barley bread Translucent shreds of white moon-onion And a kooftah rolls firm resilient From skewer onto plate. You sing: We tuck the kooftah in the split And lick with juiced tongue; We suck the acid onion dry And grind the gravied bun! Now, I see it: Your predatory tongue Burnishing the lip With emergent broth. on to #4

4. Moon gone Stars gone Cloud gone Kooftah gone Bug gone You, too, P.Q., You gone. Wine not gone. I am also not gone. Belching, I discover: Kooftah only gone as once we knew it.