The Searchlight across
The swell of the river
And no compass
Articulates this lesson
Nor during a time for trees
Are things again
Like themselves
The bells are silent
And, what am I to say?
It is better
In the darker morning
How funny and kind
Sent me a letter
What magnificent theory
Puddles on a blonde road
fulfills the patches of ponds
Of its rounded edges
Up against a sunset color
Intelligible and violent
As a dream suddenly
presses its hand into the rain
Thinks Summer’s long thoughts
Layers tied to happy people
In a flea market photograph.
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