The black bones are curled mustachios
                    and the red sweep-second hand
                    is the red line of scar
                    across the small sky
                    of my green room.
                    (Once, the red line was a door
                    to my green room
                    and the black mustachios
                    bristled as I passed
                    the soft flaps of the face.)

                    Outside, the salt-spray spurts
                    from the rain bird
                    sputtering
                    on the waving green of my grass.

                    And now the mustache is a bright knife,
                    a cutlass swinging near my ear:
                    I feel the swift wind ringing
                    my ears and drums
                    the face of Hook and Kidd
                    on my small nursery wall:
                    ding dong, ding dong dee
                    pussy's now the sea . . .

                    My green room is dark and small
                    and . . . what's that? Bells
                    for the watch of the dog—
                    run up the flag to top my room,
                    a green box to hold a grey man
                    with a ring in his ear and a face with a red scar
                    for a hand.
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