Naked TV wrestlers
turn my arm through the gentle ambience of Newtonian
              space.

I sit on the toilet with you.
I criticize your wardrobe when you’re looking okay

Turning climbing slowly in late spring among
black trunks of high pines
talking of our lives few white words flying

Wherever I look you are islands
a constellation of flowers breathing on the sea
deep-forested islands mountainous and fragrant

Wherever I look you are islands
a constellation of flowers breathing on the sea
deep-forested islands mountainous and fragrant

A large room, with an upright harpsichord in one corner. A young lady was playing the instrument, whose face was heavily carved with cherubs and fruit. The young lady played a series of English folksongs and then slipped into Bach’s Passacagliain C minor.

It’s raining for some reason over West St. Clair St. 
That merges in a cloud bank with Riddle Rd.; 
Evening Star Lane lent me to kiss Iris one fine night 

My weakness is for color words.
It doesn't begin to annoy until such time
As the parrots and Africas are

Stately, green-shuttered, midwestern
In its space of grass. The House;
But beyond this, weeds in the buckling tar.

One is solicitous of it
as a unique Himalayan rosebud
smuggled out of Nepal.