The piano-movers come in the morning the piano-movers come in the afternoon the piano-movers come to the house of Pak Yip their bellies filled with roses. In his gloss dome, over his comic book sits my insouciant brother. The sky fills with teacups and doorknobs the tibia of children with ashes with needles & floral rembrances What do you think, my brother? Awaking at four sweating, the sudden erection? The fat man at the hamburger stand? The death of Mickey Mouse? The sky fills with spoonhandles eggshells testes Fire engines scream in the forest. In the house of Pak Yip my sister lies, flaming rosebuds in her loins.
from George Hitchcock, The Wound Alphabet: Poems Collected & New, 1953-1983 (Santa Cruz, CA: Jazz Press, 1984), p. 4.