Pick Offs

THE TELESCOPE picks off star dust on the clean steel sky and sends it to me. The telephone picks off my voice and sends it cross country a thousand miles. The eyes in my head pick off pages of Napoleon memoirs ... a rag handler, a head of dreams walks in a sheet of mist ... the palace panels shut in nobodies drinking nothings out of silver helmets ... in the end we all come to a rock island and the hold of the sea-walls.