Summer.

On both sides of the summer shoot
Aching hands for the
Scolding heat--

Not dissimilar to the trees bookending a sunset

Or the reaching we do when grieving
To the one most grieving.

Watching.

Harshest judgments may come at the
Point of exhaustion.

Ripe celebrity,

You have been so keenly regarded,

Your heartbeat measured,
Your graying head
Held like a baby's

In their narrowed eye,


Come back, see as little of us as
We in turn see.

There is a jagged hedge of your youth in us,
And of us and in us, we are to your avail
Shepherds.

To the old.

Your lake lies undistressed
Just past the leafed-in
Finitude of trees
Where the subject can rest
And finitude need not as we proclaim
It exist.

Overtures to the young.

The moon is always going to
Be a little green.

And the Devil is always going to
Be making enticing
Pacts by its side.

A rich whirr bowls in the air, voices:

Listen.

Sun spots.

A mark on the sun must
Certainly mean
a mark on us.

However that transference works--
By shadow or cajoling

It ought
Regard us as with the same fair
Vulnerabilities.

The closest heart.

The cordonned heart moves and is like
A paper lantern on this river.

A rain disrupts it,
And eyes follow it
Always.

See the trembling glow as it dearly
Wishes to join the water.

Candy rain.

Everybody is impressed with candy
Rain.

It runs from the swelling trees
Like the knowledge we seek is down

Not up.

The rail.

Your hand on the rail,
The inveterate praise of light
The knuckle as it wanders
The omen.

You are an omen.

Evening.

Okay,

Come back and
Make a prosperity of my precarious
Luck.

Aisles of books and aimless sun has--

Would you lie beside me as the moon is
Being born?

The divine.

On a drenched flat where the rain had been
The sun grows delicacies and
The waters recede in teary shadows,

As if chastised, subservient
Marbled by a
Greater.

There were days when swimming I thought we had found a fold in
The law and were suddenly immortal.

Sweaters.

In part of the past
Lie sweaters and
Things I might've bought

For you had we
Time, I money

And the length of the
Measurable manageable.

Had I, we,

More deserving, less
Indebted to ourselves solely.

Ourselves, ourselves.
That we might be different than we are.

The totem.

Imagine if you actually found one,
An artifact,

Caked, but intact.

Say this arrow, errant on impact,

What kind of cost could you dream up?
What kind of coat would you wear to
The unveiling of that?

Would its slightness
Cut away from your take

Would it in shrinking mystery come to extract
Blood

From the expectation generosity and ardor
Packed?

New design.

It is assumed that a new design will soon be
Awake--
That from the hostile break

A more recent will disrupt the hill,

With shake and
Aftershake.

It is impossible.

Growing old such as I do
I tend to notice

How new leaves resemble the last,
And

How the ochre curling script outlives the brightest
Cast.

Dawn on a workday.

I can see the light through
A crack in the curtains. It is not
The only but--

Devices with crab like
Eyes cluster by the console, a waking
Shimmer lights up the spine
Of a book.

--that rain-colored explanation moves,

As if ascending.

Proportions.

A cultivation no more minute than a dime could no better disguise itself in the pocket, and yet the salvageable stuff of us could so soundly be hidden there.

Seduction.

I'm impartial,
But at a certain time the river
Compels me to blush.

I cannot say no to you.

A thaw in the senses.

The subject,
Closer and nearer,
Is so little like the Moon--

How do I even compare them?!

With the one the lips are dark as they reach,
And with the other less so.

With one the shadow falls behind me
And with the other closer, nearer.

Everyday there is a thaw in the senses
And the hands

When the blue parts with a
Specific variety of light.