Time spun in the midst of antlers
    and guns. It was hung with pine—
       cones suspended from time

symmetrically, like icicles. Time itself
    was surrounded by leaves, was draped
       with a saddle, and horns. Above it,

the head of a deer. Above it,
    on a tiny balcony in sudden color,
       a general—and a fraulein, or queen—

in white, in red, in black. The balcony
    pleated like a skirt. The fraulein’s skirt
       un-pleated. Time

wanted to beat its wings, but had none.
    Had, instead, a couple of arrows,
       pointing at numbers. Time was caught

in a circle, but not for long.
    The circle lay against a piece of wood,
       and even that wood was a record

of longer time. One only had to look.
    Time was surrounded
       by a rabbit and an early conquistador

in knickers and a blunderbuss, but above
    the spinning of time, even the stocks
       of the guns, before our eyes,

were turning into birds.
    And the birds began to fly