Don't stray.

Don't stray;

The broadest course of thunder
Cannot be mapped.

In the veins of it, however,
Is a flare of starlight.

Nothing escapes;

Don't stray, it has traveled
To shine in your room.

Passing by beauty.

The truth in my hands is a
Clumsy truth, but

It doesn't wither.

And when I wish for the prosperity of the fields I've passed through
I get little help.

The prosperity of the fields I've passed through moves as it
Always moves
--with such indifference.

Gunshots.

Echo least what distresses the ear.

And echo most what you spoke when I mistook
Speaking

For danger with all
My senses.

A Miracles tune on the walk home last night.

To each walk a tune.

And to a tune a girl
Singing--

To a leaden path this way
Glazed in icy moonlight,

Pause if you can once in a while

As in pausing we
Discovered the walk.

Coarse fibers combed from the weft of our walk
And walk so to demonstrate that here and not there,
Lies coupled grace with toppling

And the walk is sacred.

Coal.

To the lonesome miners who found the coal
Below,

Look at the sun and what you gave.
Your commodity is learning to speak
In a threadbare economy.

Mutiny begins in the dark.

All skin rests
When you ask it to
Just look.


Mutiny begins in the dark, Truest.

Mockery.

Silver feathers move to each side
In midair

As mockeries
Develop sincerity.

The birds keep flying;
Our jokes--

Even our jokes, hissy
Scar references, and unhumbleable usage,

Redeem us.

How?

No, truly, how?

Moves from fiction.

Can you tell from the rabbits in the distance
And the cotton wind that holds the sun

That none of this is real?

Is there amid the wealth of memory
Ample evidence

That what has gone before
Moves from fiction

And none is real?

Do you not see why I've chosen a simulacrum
As the tender birch
And tender thigh

Lie elsewhere?

The gentle road.

The air is cool when they go;

One and another part ways.
One final touch of their skin
Forces a laugh--

No one quotes Burns, or Shakespeare.

The gentle road falls below
Always such the gentle road
Where they part

When they go.

A distressed imagination.

A distressed imagination can sad to say
Be contained
With water and cover.

Before it burns its way
Completely through it can be corralled

And kept if you're careful
From the yield

Of fruit, educational tempest and

Shield.

When majority finally succumbs to base and
Last least majority

Let the swollen fingers be like fingers and grasp.
Let the tongue suck to unblock and--

Learily,
Loosen the hold.

Our conversation.

A language written is not so different
From the kind that is spoken,
Determining the fates of
Entire evenings

Crumbling decades of sayings
And humble buildings.

Accents you hear, swell and prevail
As you might expect
Flowers, to see, to smell,

Above a dinner table.

The first impact , you hear,
Says YES
As if the word is dry and hayish.

The second says YES
As if a moisture has managed to reform it
Back to a touch,

A beaded
And leafy

And lowly caress.

Cicero.

Number everything.
Then,
Make way.
Imbalance has an insistent way of keeping
A tab open

And a party going.

(Hellacious sterns of us grab for the door.)

A warm night in advance of autumn.

The ball of the moon has
Skipped few rooftops tonight.

It must be this city,
This neighborhood

In which certain darknesses
And their angles dictate;

It is not to say we are not awake who see it
There.

There is an outdoor cat in the earliest leaves,
And we grieve for the past.