Pictures at an Exhibition

When we lived in representations
And there was no dawn except for the deep cerise
Of the golden cherries radiating waves of pooling heat
Across the houses made of clay,
The cross-roads fashioned from the damp
That gave their color to the lamps, and all was bathed
In violently depressed, repressed,
And parting nights that shed their blue
Over the hills
Perched above the town
Like phoenixes or randy clowns
Covering their impressions with a frown,

There were no children in the house,
The garden filled with bees,
Sucking from the flowers perfect particles
Of sweet, but on the streets the cars
Moved like our planets and our sky
Seemed to cover a question,
Mark of days spent on the hammock
Sipping lemon — and when I held you, felt
The cover of a book, or like the chapter head,
Or just the fuzz collecting on the bed
And on the screen.