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I'd speak if I wasn't afraid of inhaling
A memory I want to forget
Like I trusted the world which wasn't mine
The hollyhock in the tall vase is wide awake
And feeling are only overcome by fleeing
To their opposite. Moisture and dirt
Have entered the space between threshold and floor
A lot is my estimate when I step on it
Sorrow can be a home to stand on so
And see far to: another earth, a place I might know

- pg. 5

We moved to be happy

Like a remote sensing tool each body
in the family
adapted to earth's urbanity and travelled

When the water went south for the winter

it carried us down like storm-driven gulls
to this crash that we call a city

- pg. 19

The cornerstone's dust
upfloating

by truck & tanks.
White flowers spackle

the sky crossing the sea.
A plane above the patio

wakes the silence
and my infant who raises

his arms to see
what he's made of.

O animation! O liberty!

- pg. 37

A blight was on the oaks
in Franklin Park where Olmsted planned

and drew an artificial paradise.
But in the zoo an animal
killed his keeper the same night I wanted to kill mine,

and this stage was really hell - the fracas of an El
to downtown Boston, back out again,
with white boys banging the lids of garbage cans,
calling race-hatred into our livingroom

through leaves which naturally dizzied and fell

- pg. 43

There's a lot of the West
On this continent
A large snow is drifting
Towards those parts smiles
For the art pieces mounted on earth
Rebound as beauty in each thing is cut asunder
Steal the thunder of unclear weapons
And West is West even if you're in it
A US Space Station turns towards our ice palace
Those nearest the palace laugh hardest

- pg. 53

I don't believe in the light on the river
moving with it or the green bulbs hanging on the elms
Outdoors, indoors, I don't believe in a gridlock of ripples
or the deep walls people live inside

Some of the others believe in food & drink & perfume
I don't. And I don't believe in shut-in time
for those who committed a crime
of passion. Like a sweetheart
of the iceberg or wings lost at sea

the wind is what I believe in,
the One that moves around each form

- pg. 60

The orange flower on the other side of that pane -
Paper or fate?

Put your finger in the light, Eyes, and draw
A white field. A lamb made of lambs

Before the world is round
There's a line of traffic
Which shakes aside all sparrowings

Triggers follow feeling but precede acting on them
A feeling triggers a feeling, then the heft
Of the hand to work

A human face is pressed on glass; mirrors like armour
Break shapes into targets

The woman's face on the other side of this pane -
Paper or fate?
Written in light, in either case

- pg. 63

The night was almost too long to bear
Then there was evidence of mercy - a passing car -
milky air - and I could see
dry walls & gravel on the way to a highway
Atlantic for its grays

Loss is the fulfillment of the Law
Space collected on a long line

I was eliminated as a locus of mothering -
a she - physical but imaginary as a restless daughter

Why this body and not another

The one who came to destroy the works of women - their
offspring -
knew how many people were resisting incarnation
He counted on them by accommodating them

- pg. 67

In the next world I discovered
a hovel where a naked I writes with a nail
There you're as small as zero, the hole in the wall
the mouse goes in
with a whorl of cheese
for the littlest glass-cutter to eat
To paint one rose equals a life in that place
and on the thorny path outside
one cathedral is equal to the sky

- pg. 74

How long I've waited, I can't count
Long days in green - eternal advent -

like fine bones drying in the north wood snow
when the whites of the hunter

have come and gone -
I'm animal mineral vegetable friend -

calling to one. It keeps me young.
Through rainclouds on the hills I call

down to the ivy, watery walls
past the gate, slate rood and brick

painted to childhood's size
To one I cry: Come!

Take the walk with me home.

- pg. 77

The wildness of the flower is all in the tone
Where the yellow goldenrod's a chirrup

When its chaperone is sleeping, Queen Anne's Lace
appears beside chicory, seemingly for beauty's sake

And one wild rose, the last,
before October, blackens on the bush, the bees

have headed off to the thistle factory
It's audible, if you see it -

colour & strain of voice, among purples,
an indifferent shoulder (rocks) raised to dim

the passionate voice

- pg. 89

To imitation England

Her owners brought her
Something like a transplanted hand
Of green fans grew in the vineyard
And she was there. Despair
Calculated she'd be home by never
When she was looking to locate
Heaven under a bell of seeds
She found her bird, they'd hung it there

- pg. 95

God is already and waiting: the future is full.
One steps timidly over the world;
the other is companionable.
The house is there. The door is there . . . others . . .
But for you they make no sound when you're so far.
I know the bench is by the pond tomorrow
when I can follow the streets to it by heart.
Yes, streets. Yes, heart.
Nightwalk of faith, chromosomes live in the past.
The land is an incarnation
like a hand on a hand on an arm asking do you know me?

- pg. 115

The human is a thing

Who walks around disintegrating. Robins
Take turns in the birch. Lower down, hottentot figs
Burst green water

I've got to try touching
A cactus

Never happier in the world - that - am
Happy as yellow monochrome
The fragilest colour among them

- pg. 128

Two waters - squared
by an alley -

Three acorns -
One wet chair

Several yellow
chestnuts -

A man's erect
nipples

It was enemy class
travel

with the devil
who's red for a reason

Pleasure bloodies his underskin
Thin skin

- pg. 136

I suffer from ire, it's electric.
I quaff a philter to choke it -
followed by a cordial -

the next morning, my ire is back.

When was my hear's ease lost
in circles of fire? When I started
seeking cures made of poison, asp.

- pg. 153