I can see the traces of old work
Embedded in this page, like your bed
Within a bed. My old desire to live!

It sang without a sound: music that
The naive elm trees loved. They were alive.
Oh silky music no elm tree could survive.

It doesn’t speak and it isn’t schooled, 
like a small foetal animal with wettened fur. 
It is the blind instinct for life unruled, 

From what facts you gave, or refrained from giving,
I have not quite been able to determine
whether a porch graces the girl’s aunt’s house

The square stone room makes a shape in the air
to rest inside. A form for holding what is loved
beyond naming. With gratitude and reverence

  This rain has stopped, and the moon has come out.
I don’t understand the first thing about radio
waves. But I think they travel better just after

“Well, what’d you dream of this time, Gorbunov?”
“Oh, mushrooms, mostly.” “Mushrooms! What the hell!
Again?” “Again.” “You really make me laugh.”

The real is a wilderness
that ambitions calls a garden.

There is a cataract of blood over the dawn;
I know by watching
from the river’s fringes of wild grass

Its pupils (I see them now, violet) were actual holes.

Terrified, one paw raised, trembling on the ciment edge of the threshold, it whispered, down in the snow— blue fluctuating flute.