Knitting.

In the cloth there lays a little lap;
No pattern--

No one telling it how to grow
Sleeves. (But everyone is close at hand

And in the park a sunset often slips into

Jokes.)

Privilege.

The only reason to
Encourage a beaver to chew down this
One tree is that it might differ
And fall headlong on a
Marble floor.

Jagganatha

May this last flower be exactly as I remember it--

Exactly as it is.

Cider.

The belly of an apple is
Green, and when fairness fails,
Pink.

You know, the tongue is dumb to language.

Her new name is June.

If it blooms let us encounter it.  And

May I never grow so strong a stomach as to take it in grace

When her shoulder is bare and
June prevails on the calendar.

The songs.

Experience can be conservatively divided
Into two lots:

The imaginative, and the
Songs

Uncles sing.

The world.

A cat addresses the world with neat, factual prints.

A shadow, too.

Precision--
It walks to dare,

Is a fine thing that must be smudged
To distinguish. The thing is thin

Collateralizing disbelief on a path
Of mystery.

Lunapark.

Between a girl's hand
And a marble table,

I found a cold shadow.

Where are the eyelashes? Where is the ferris wheel
In this place?

Lingua franca.

All the inches of a holiday are measured in shadows.

We eat in a way to which we are accustomed,
And we return, diaphanous,

To the language from which we momentarily paused
From speaking.

The breeze responds to me.

The breeze responds to me;

I must have been born corrupt;

Corrupt hair,
Corrupt privilege. But

I reach to fetch other contaminations.

All the whiles descend like brittle glass.

If you feel tired you should sleep.

All the whiles descend like brittle glass.

If you're gone too long the rows of medium
Will part.

Evil preserves the water abandoned by a
Shut eye.

What an apple must've been, before it was food.

When our words suddenly become functional in daily life, the horizon cuts the land from the sky.  And monsters teethe.

Paradise.

We share an unkempt barrack
Paid for with turnip
Ends and copper.

Winter apple.

It's morbid to lick things you don't intend to eat.

It shows you have looked at a part of
The world, listened,
Sensed,

And then displayed the ceremonious conviction
To wait.

Love.

What a foolish compass is laid
In the grass,

Where it might lie.

The Rape of Europa.

An oyster is wise to its own jewelry.
It opens once,

And once to one wealthy door knock.

The narrow hallway by the time clock.

I don't like to mope.

But plain walls bother me.

I am a lover of simple decorations.

And a fat shadow will suffice.

Growth.

The girl's cheek grows pretty with time.
Beauty is like a young linebacker--

With no residue at his feet
He piles shoulders with wear.

Campfire.

Above the ground
my toes have been with the grass.

I peeled the foil from an ashy potato and ate.  Meanwhile
The monarchy of stars

watched.

Sap.

A sap owes nothing
To a catcus,
Sitting beside me.

And a gulp, nothing,
To a grain of salt
Dissolved.

Landscape.

I love what I've always loved because what I've always loved is affordable.
I wore wet brown shoes to get to it

And I took them off when I got there.

The story I read
Concerns an astronaut who landed on a

Shoot-colored planet--he's nearly there.

I would never have known that he had a doubt about the world,
Any more than that in those Martian chemistries similar

Geraniums grew.

o.

If you thumb through the grassy
Things in the grow

o

Share them lest they be handily lost
To fingers-- or a snap of frost.