Months and months.

Many misfortunes
Owe to

A toughness in the joints.

As they age a worldiness of the body blossoms.

To become firm those angles, they ache

And say,

You must say goodbye to the dexterity of
So many summers.

April, II

Inhabitant love lives here. To oversimplify it, it is
Like magic.

Before magic can be magic

It must by the parameters of
Its own religious coherence

Seem impossible.

April.

See the management of the soul:

You know, the tender magnificence
Will astonish you considerably less
Than the inevitability that
You will lose sight of it.

'I Wonder'

I wonder if it isn't a raucousness in the ensuing
Kids

That makes what they find in love
Silly,

And in desperation
Color?

Distance prevailing.

The world is impressive--doesn't it impress you?

Doesn't it impress you

There?

The legion of corners.

The problem you will
Find in faith

Lies in the legion of
Corners.

It or more accurately they
Await

The persuasive swagger
Or pristinest bell

Of a girl's gaiting air

To round just one
And make of the truest map

A tacky web.

Daylight.

The sun met the oldest bars in prison
In a canting fashion,

Spoke and

Said:

I choose you.

Clearing.

This particular area is clouded over on the map.

Years ago, back
In fact

When your people first arrived
It was hacked clear,

But never graphed.

The moseying sunlight was in place,
A yellow willowy arm shuffling newborn

Shadows in the fronds
And fresh disposes.

No, nothing portended an end of
Times or crop failures, or

Any thing of the like to that trodding generation's grace.
All the same, some impetus thrived

So with almanacs, recipes and their own host of
Pregnancies in carriage they disassembled and

In disassembling disarchived the entire space.

Cast to the side were all but
Your black barkarole, the trampled corridor

And other roses.

On a Cole Porter song.

The song rhyme must be

Written like a sturdy murder

mystery, beginning with

a surprise,

then moving

In reverse

Through

the rest of it

As needed.

Waterlimos.

This is how the night will play out:

No waterlimos, no gulls to descend
On peanut bags, no bag boater's shout.

No reason to shout.

The vine won't wither when you
Decide a kiss goes afoul
Of me.

The grape won't taste of poison
The gland won't spout.

What nature, my tongue
And these lines

Should profit
Content to go elsewhere,

Diverge, disambiguate, reroute

Will decelerate.


As if by suggestion of numbers
A pudgy zero will think, then mouth

Maybe there:

Navigate a tipping bow by it, then
Lose it in the heaving salts, eye
craning, wisdom and its bounding amount,

Hereabouts.

Blue moon.

Jesus Christ,
I wonder if you left me out for grotesque reasons.

The story is ambiguous: Were you married when we,
Met and therefore unavailable to

Me?

I only ask because it's doo wop night and
I'm lonely.

Sharks in windows.

Down to nothing now,

Did you see what scrubbing
Left me?

Sharks in windows and
All the things they say

Lie scrubbed and saved and said.

It's still only one one

But I imagined myself,
Presumptuously, ahead.

A short-lived custom.

Each is
A reflection of his light.

Each is spelled
As is his name, spelled out:

Purposefully, plainly--in curves aloud.

Look how each bird writes:

It is uncommon to trust the sky with anything so
Fleeting. Look,

It bounds.