Reading Ashbery in Eau Claire

The roof booms. He’s perfect 
for this small apartment, wallaby amok 
in the crawlspace, white asparagus 

flaccid at last, indifferent snow, port in a cracked glass. 
Quadruplets, these residences: shared walls, one bold 
V inverted, draped on the lot of us, white 

with worry. Where’s the avalanche? The cannon? 
Where I come from, dogs run in the streets: snow, no snow. 
Or it’s black. Geese eclipse a peripheral star, honk 

like Renaults. Sound has an edge. We cut 
Christmas men out of skyline. Maybe it’s the West, too much 
of a good thing, the rest trimmed with a sharp knife. Here 

chains on macadam, the guy two over hanging 
the portrait of an ingénue, pounding in one ten-penny 
after another. Or not. I’ve had enough 

of ambiguity: the line of shrouded trees, 
the llama on the crooked road, 
the failing gray.