Walked out into the light clouds
hanging down in the east like vines
having first climbed up it was a shaking
off of paralysis who’d you get that off
for me I said a miracle meaning the will outside
the body when I went to drag you
out there too you were walking like a Warhol mylar
cloud springing springing green hood
past the barn you knew all along you were going
to see it. The child’s uninterest didn’t make us suspicious
of him all silhouettes are ancient on a ridgeline in the orchard.
The white dog is black and chases long sticks flying
a line crossing out the huge word West
before it joined in darkening the flash of light-
in-opened-mouth. Having taken out all the concrete particulars and left
an abstraction that walks around a body known so
well you can’t help or picture it a cure for description
now heard to be an echo like the crime of fortune
telling everything that happened leading up to the stranger
who got you thinking it was there
among the vertiginous sure companion
thought to light.
Train Seen From The Seashore
One lie is not as good as another.
He dropped those particular berries. The modern flotsam
(the other in the bamboo boat’s gone missing)
is plastic, ball, bleach bottle, woman’s sandal, net,
termagant, accident, you-name-it,
tied together with string to make a mooring
marker or a haply child, as walking along the shore
I never left it, or those years making fortune,
the three-year, five-year, two-syllable,
the rule being each the same as preceding,
for the world called us, ease of utterance, to each other,
attraction/repulsion, the toy trains the shuddering blast
the diesel-engined one from the tunnel mimicked
to great marvelous and residual excitement.
I have given up all my addictions.
As the after-products, we clung to the edge, the plage,
like letters on burlap worlds, bran leaking,
or autographs made grass stains between past
and someday next when we’ll conspire, cold,
in the hot, unquiet ground once said to chasm
a lime-pit that emerged from us, now recombined,
though not like what we’d like to shame, an eternal,
happy ghost of more expressive features,
indefinite, lyric game we played endlessly.