It was a sound
way off on the green lawn
A bank of birds
A signature somewhere
Like any line
Might be my last
I walked by the panzer tank
A base of sunlight
Blinded the Willows
I was reminded
But then lost count
I became hungry
like a ghost
Must feel hunger
I was alone
And suddenly
Like a boat knocking
Against its moorings
I was asleep
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.
The stars grow larger
Into a beautiful shape
Just like the way
Other things happen
Rushed or needling
Like an angry note
From someone
That’s been drinking
You see what inhibits us
Is this lining of wilderness
Compromise,
How the rest
Of the universe
Seems to float by scientifically
I almost feel sorry for you
Suddenly quiet
After checking the mailbox
A modest and exact play
And I hear I could’ve added
A lifestyle, a detour to the mood
But I am usually quieter
When at my desk
I moved to a dark place
To write this or that
My sole worry is in definition
Lest the words
Lose their heat
And fail to explain
I want them
So we can hold them
Hold them up to the light
Until their unwearing
Until their strings
Become permanent
And until like a sentence
I read you.
It outlives our letters
simply there against
the thrashes of loneliness
among the check out counters,
wildly spaced
like the words in a diary.
At any moment,
it goes blindly into the living world,
slender, correct and then
vanishes like pleasure.
It is the neighbor of memory.
It is undependable like a relative.
It is cloaked in lucidity
or worn again and again
like a favorite coat,
we are embarrassed to voice it
in short sleeves.
It fills the corner in light.
It is heavy like iron.
No one expects it.
It is not for government use
Sometimes it is a beautiful
knock on our door in the evening.
It is vivid like the horizon
in Rhode Island.
Ah, my great love.
You are the sapling
that I am afraid to disturb.
You question me
about the weather
continuously
and I am always well
meaning but misguided.
There is something
purely green about you.
Like a seabed
you are abundant
and ready for company.
No one wants to extinguish you
you are attractive like
the unexpected,
which time and nature
has given a twilight hue
honestly for the better.
We have reached
automatically
the beautiful part
of the hot day,
just as we expected
happily driving deep
into song or a room
made comfortable
by open-ordained freshness.
The medicine
was mistaken
to be actually
Air flavored with lavender
silent eyes.
As we prepare
longer cadences
in the moment
that draws close
to the sensible
border of our darling
and masterful hands.
It seemed strange we were
always in awe.
That someday we will
want to know
the projections seriously arrived at.
A flourish of flowers
against the pavement.
What may ruffle the tags
gleam across the mountain.
The cat changes position
and we are closer now.
Especially on the record of afternoon.
Surely we will have to arrange
the table for lunch.
And ask for music to follow.
Say our sentences exceed
a large in parentheses colored wing.
Whispers on the water.
Only a bowl of oatmeal lies
between me and the moon
Seeing it again, it grows softer
It is coming out like the stars
Come out oh magnificent cause
Now, in my new eyes.
And to think there must be a source
left unaware and responsible
besides, who else, with the string of clouds
moves towards intermission.
It is time for us to be together
to go to the screen.
To get caught up
in the fullness of the day.
No more to reckon
in the empty house of Romantics.
One surveys the land and finds the grass
is much taller over there.
That this very afternoon is hot enough
to muffle the exchanges
between the wildflowers.,
One stands for something,
each other,
at least something living.
To wait for the light
to pass on into berries.
Or each time a hard aim
to open the book
to the same page
the same passage and to send
only its strange encouragements.
