up rises his arm to
the stony nape

how frost-biting there

why are you scratching there?
she laughs (without noticing
his concrete face reinforced
with painful spanners)

everything’s a puffery ad: even
the god’s legs and the goddess’s nails

noisy wreathes unfurl under windows
two silence–filled bags
hardly enough for a burial

so
at least
his arm could escape
hoisting its bust
on the uppermost shelf
of the paradise