T.V.

Boxed in prize-fighter Spinning punches for a sold-out crowd Tubes and tubes Run chain for miles, rust spots baring Stark, empty Jews Playing corn in a field, as Nazi golems keep track of the moves. A dusty field lying naked and bruised Soaking a fever Like a garden patch, mid-Sundayafternoon. A mindless hum and the funereal gloom Turns black to life - avarice Mary; my wife Has been sick Seven years - with undying green eyes Her clock springs sprung, like the misshapen tide.