Cave if the Painting Suggests It

The great bank of fog on the wall
Turrets were where we first did it
Watching the cars directly below
And you buckled until the sun

Sgt. Presto was known worldwide
At the Paris Exhibition he danced
For the upper striations of geese
What’s good is not for you to speak to

Go sing to the nightingale on your thigh
Shall I drop the needle? We're shorthanded
Keep opening to the flinch lock, star spurts
And I will steal you away in cork raiment

It’s the same thickness you remember
Sparks still surround its reluctant launch
Swell of the straw, the gentlest wreck
When you recorded your mouth in context

A shell in the archive, annals of petal discourse
the hall, was it ever this narrow, as dark?
I think of the time she looked along the length
and found her way lit into the bluer passage.