In Another Room I Am Drinking Eggs from a Boot

By Frank Stanford

Hans Richter

What if the moon was essence of quinine
And high heels were a time of day
When certain birds bled
The chauffeur is telling the cook
The antler would pry into ice floes
Swim with a lamp
And we’d be shivering in a ditch
Biting through a black wing
There would be boats
There would be a dream country
The great quiet humming of the soul at night
The only sound is a shovel
Clearing a place for a mailbox

Copyright Credit: Estate of Frank Stanford © C.D. Wright
Source: Automatic Co-Pilot (Unpublished Collection)