VII
                                                                                   And in the Cosmos, at the
                              counter, in front of the salt and pepper and sitting
                              on one of those heavenly wobbly stools the color
                              it turns out of blood, it matches the ripped open veins,
                              he whipped up his rage and yelled, he pounded his fist
                              and shook the shakers, he spilled his coffee, he spilled
                              a cupful of blood, he pulled a handful of patterned
                              paper napkins out of the streamlined holder
                              to sop up the liquids and in the midst since he
                              was thoughtful as well as berserk, he watched the brown
                              which is the color of coffee with milk spread forth
                              as water on sand spreads forth, he was awakened
                              and walked, so to speak, at the edge so his toes wouldn’t turn
                              too cold too soon, or walked on his hands, he once
                              could do that, and at a certain point in
                              space as well as time, the brown on the white just
                              stopped forever, then he took his sword,
                              which was a fork as light as tin and cut
                              two heads off—shaker heads—and he was sapient
                              enough to know that he was not only I.
Cervantes              but C. as well, at least a little, C. from
                              Spain, that maimed and stricken Lanzman who
                              saw everything at once—I’d call it a curse—
                              and tilted at shakers, and so on, then he charged
                              at enemies and he was alone in the field
                              and probably had a talking horse or an unarmed
                              jeep with a canvas top, and fuck the trees,
                              he wouldn’t stand behind a tree, and fuck the
                              holes, he wouldn’t dig one if his life
                              depended on it, and surely it did,