I too dislike it.

But something has to keep the garden free

of insects and apparitions.

It is here, this poultry,

to see clearly that nothing is there

and see that nothing clearly:

that there is

no apparition in the shroud

and nonetheless collect

the apparitions of those faces

in the crowd.

Picture someone scattering seeds of light

that will blossom into faces,

real or unreal.

Think of a subway tunnel through the turnips,

its mole moving assiduously through it,

a buried light cutting its path through ink.

The chickens.

The red wheelbarrow.

The toad that carries its ruby,

a searchlight

in the center of its head.

Think about poultry.

Try not to think about poetry.