Identical Twins Roam Surrealism Galleries

We don’t care if we talk or not
peanut-shaped faces on a steam engine train
lugged by conductor with gilded eyes
glued to the back of his head.
I go where you go, right
nude atop dome holding snakes holding pose
everything closed is open again
includes breast and belly slide-out drawers
this and that and nothing more but twice
one’s tear’s, joys, leads to the other’s—
what images glean you when you
hit that darkroom after hours
and I think of that as sonnet—
under winged derby hat, acrylic
amoebic man flat abs holds to railroad ties
under a thick starch cloud sky, come here
frosting-gauche, inserted knife
baby doll mobile. Why include a pipe?
Penguin, sanguine, skates colored ice.
I don’t get why all the blood.
Tableau: a cozy fit for queens
on crooked thrones sipping neon tea…
sister, that’s we.
And of those old-timey, dripping clocks
we will forevermore have to see
the moon long ago wolf-howled
their purposes away, aweigh all hands go
ticking no moments
to create what we have
some relief, some new day
while the gallery guard in deep-less thought
whistles over us when he sees us shoulder up
for a couple
of selfies.