I'm happy.

I see nothing but light.

If you're nearby, maybe, looking
At the same spot, and wondering

Why shadows don't register it's
Because

Sing Hosanna.

"AND they that preceded us and the others were singing Hosanna, a blessing to fortune, in the name of the Lord." -The Gospel of St. Mark 11:9

Some days,
I disfigure You by
Saying your name, as though
Saying the name of a woman who was near

Was no different.

But I remember You--powerfully, in the game smell (in a pile of shit.)

You know the way a stream blinks, and in blinking
Very nearly prevails upon its host at the fortune of sunlight;
You are nearly nothing to me.

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.

House.

The forest
Follows the pralines
Of the fox to the

Gull.

Just before sunrise, outside Carlisle.

When words failed him, he coughed--
But those plegm yellow sounds got the braille

From the lungs so the tongue could be read aloud.

He did what came natural, next:

Shot a white eye into the pond's air, and watched it
Over the stock divot, disappearing in flapping ink--

The indentations rose to places where they

Could recite their iliads in clouds.

(He thought if only his wings would touch the infinite watertips.)

The maple.

There are certain words that spook me to say them.
When I can convince them to come out

They arrive, smarter and tauter than I could imagine.

I say to myself,

ouch, I do not belong here in this old pill-colored palace.

And the heft and the pine in my voice summons the past.

A compliment.

Dance.  I'll remember you differently.

There is no platonic research, no rehearsal. Nor,

Can you come early, nor respond
afterward.

I have the flu,
I'm old

I was never right beside you.

Gloomily, I turn a weak faucet on my feet.
The suspense of my steps thrills me--

But I see them as they are, one as conspicuous
and unclear as the next.

I know which step follows the right after
so long--

And you,
Are so strange to everyone for whom

We dress and wish.

Infancy.

Wise things are coercive--
Blooming in fields lost to sons, bell-casters,

To battles.

The flowers on the blue curve are a sign of a season
Shortening, having colored

Now, already
Dull.

The pink inner thrills on those
studious fingers feast on the
Over-abundant sun.

Such a world of lies--just listening will
Stop your heart.

Last season a fat baby rose from his cradle,
The lava-folds of his tender back to the field,

Unfriendly to the hands that made him laugh.

The subject is the rain.

A fat poet reads,
Playing with the hair in his belly button.

The subject is the rain.

Who among us would follow him down that road?

Think of the mud and
Humiliation.

Think of the agreement in his smile to which none of us could ever be faithful,
Drying off.

It copied an older form--one to which we do adhere, actually.


And these rainy plums are black and sugary.

Narcissus.

Our

Welfare has armied numbers going on.

So quarrels dip boot-high, and fill with smoke, 

and, too, fill with wandering.

But
Civility is cleaner and has reason on its side--
And the grave greens and the algae blues pollute
It. Look at this fleshing ebb, here,

Where the Allegheny slurps under a bridge.

The swimmers
Go unnoticed, returning almost,

The fun progressing in their heads.

Dreaming of home.

Occasionally, you get someone like Glenn Gould--
A human.

But here we are, where memory is stronger
Than art.

Morning observation.

Dawn passes through the heavy curtain;

People are happier than they seem.

Swimming haiku.

The balm of the Moon's
White eye on swimmers below--

They work tomorrow.

The losing party.

Who may I hear singing?

Though the tune gets so incautiously lost in dynamite explosions!

In peppermint; I taste it!

In breezes, in ease.  In thrift.

In curtains forlorn for those who might but haven't parted them.
Listen to the leisurely red crackling and then in laughing,

Re-cackling--

Listing, as the idylls
of vertigo
found in stacking
Things up to
achieve
the hilarity

of toppling.

The air upon them calms me, which is why I find myself
Asking.

A losing party cuts sentiment in final stone--not so much in conveyance as in tone
Neither theirs, nor their own,
While

From the dim lawn and hapless crickets
The rich fingers of a harp are most

Sweetly and hungrily heard chirping.

What I tell you is a secret.

How sincere are the gladdest fingertips!

Most refrain, 

--or never feather,

Or never are.

But pointing at the scribble tails of salamanders in the soil,

Or enlisted by the cupholds of (so much) music

The initiative to look weakens.

Take this glance of darkness:

It stretches past the orange morning

And the humor.

And the gallows of smoke that get produced:

And the purview of that smoke we inhale,

And the purview of secrecy.

The heritage of angels.

So what is it?

Is it the distress of form,
Or the dilution of color?

Is it less than the neat grass knots I tied and hair-parts which
Have gone through great lengths to be
Puzzled for, and looked upon?

I think it's a cloud of yarn.  I think it's an impressive cat--
And not human at all.

I mean, look, there are its teeth, and too, its sharp, peach-lidded eyes.

But what else.

Because something determinate must address our misfortunes with
The future.

OK.

Some of these hornets
Don't sting--prop bees.

They belong to the set
Of Nature.

And when swept up,
With trees and seas,

They'll go away.

Okay?

The birds squandered in flight.

If once a baby then always a baby--

---and to

anyone.

Go up womb.  Go up word.

Only smoke and birds in flight know more.
And you know, it's a potion
Of air.

No healing.  Not in my sky.

Marvel, sunny.

Marvel, sunny.

It is a bicuspid war, and a toes war,
Nothing less.
It is not here, however--not on this particular shore--

Has been declared with pawing paws,
Is in all
A virginity war.

Go between the letters, seas, the phone calls

And the utter lack of yesses.

Run, if you must:  For Shit's sake crawl!
Go to maybe, now, with eyelashes
To fend off the marvelous sunny tresses!

Every restless thing is a vessel, a home--

A fortress to patrol for a
Hat to fall.