Even the sea is put to bed.
Even the cliffs along the shores look both ways

Clarence was a chosen person that they got somewhere
To be lower than a cook, but higher than a dishboy.

The photographer is blind to what he sees—
He hits the shutter: indifferent film will hold the scene together.

Black caterpillars squirmed under noses.
Spit curls wormed down from hairlines.

On the cold coast west out of Hoquiam
I’m a stalker with a short-handled gun,

“The figure should be natural and relaxed,”
   asserted Mucha to his drawing class,

In the country, a dog is as free as a roach

One morning I awoke
to a dead pigeon on the roof
of the building next to mine,

Plinth: the ring of truth and false pretenses
Plinth: the sound of a plucked string
Plinth: or gravel

I have been going about as usually do when, suddenly, without warning, I am overwhelmed by some feeling. There it is. As real as anything.