Eastern Sea, 100 fathoms,
green sands, pebbles,
broken shells.

A slender plank above a waterhole,
planted on end to meet my wants,
I hear its whisper in the stock.

As I write                  The getting & losing of it 
into                           beer, my right hand
the secret                  branches radiate from

On the                          ...Madrid, last capitol of the silence...

invisible                        thru corridors of 9,000 lungs, wand/legged ladies
                                    protected from slow muffle machines

sun is first coming through the eucalyptus early morning

the question you asked
in the center of the world we were making

Writing with swiftness concerning the movement of water,
of startled fishes, the lavender sea-fan, the lobster,
you have omitted the arch of sand and the rigmarole

In a loft facing a parking lot
   on a main drag of the tired
southend, lives my friend

i believe you, i
believe you. but 
tho you be the fool, 

Who was Mary Shelley? 
What was her name 
before she married?