One thing minus the horse has to happen first.
Here you are. What are you thinking? Are you
Leaving so soon? Green joy. We love you. Have
Some stew before you move on. Rest.
The sons and daughters of the town wonder, too,
How you got here, your eyes on the ocean , your
Drawings of places they’ve never been and how you
Drew them.
Your feet on their fathers’ cliff.
They won’t talk about it, but what about you.
Looking down, now, did you ride here on a horse?
Okay, the weird glow of the thing is that
Love is permanent,
And it will last forever. But we don’t. It’s up to us to bring Colored yarn and tie our letters to the
Rail before it goes out to sea.
In Torquay, in 1997, in a fog and drunk on cider
I saw France. I mean, I know I saw it—
Which somehow makes it less than having been real.
Language must look back and
Miss the discipline of the type-
Writer.
There was a row you could watch
As it fell in on itself. A putty blue
Roller
Controlled everything—even the sea-
Foam of heaving errors, and a gull mis-
Taking
A period for its spot.
