With you I want to say,
humble feet of antelopes,
what I cannot have in mind

It’ll never be built, that house,
what do you say.

Dear Cleo, I can’t complain about your absence 
Nor excuse my failure to call you sooner 
I mistook you for your sister and 

For all I can do,A last barn, dark as a plug of chewing tobacco,Crumbles into chipmunk holes. Then

If I seem to patronize and always limit what I say
                to the cliches of affection, mother,
      and never give a good goddamn what you are doing:

Came to me—
         Who?
She.

He believes, he believes, the gray-eyed one 
who puts your shards together. 
(Cleft saucers are mended in Vitebsk.) 

she’d rather hobble to the window
           to look out on garages and planets

Measuring out the Jack
Daniels at 1 : 25,
closing the cupboard

We walk across the snow,
The stars can be faint,
The moon can be eating itself out,