Richard Denner
Mimics in the Mist
I walk on the leaves
fallen on the ground—
gravity’s delight!
pressed to the pavement
in the wet night
Mimics brush by
in white face and tattered tux
I turn, they turn, my turn, their turn
doubles hide in every word
I envision you
at your till
in Montmartre
truth follows beauty around the lake
In
a forest — an old
cannon in a tree
that could fall if
there was a breeze
later
a boy kisses a girl
and the cannon falls
or not, if no one’s there
later
abnormal that
there is a forest at all
after those kisses
later
a sequence
of pictures
placed
between
interruptions