The Fall Returns Poem by Clark Coolidge

the rooms are chosen, then they move on
the beads are wetted in the lime
the weedlot boils in the blood of one eye
the children first are cankered then they spin


there are not routes, only dials
the rocks are spun together in one ball
the laundry is of rust, the pillow shrieks
pianos all blow northward and return


must be a bath if I could find it is a map
of all the ways that center intermission
skulls are simply caps for all compression
day's light raising closets for its dark


I put up the clothes and trail the keys
that onyx knob in vacuum turns the train
pressure on the pitches swaying back again
a world without a heartbeat but it stays