the door is open
like the night outside
I’ll stand to walk

Weeding the garden, Clayfeld sprained his finger
     pulling out a stubborn root,
and had to have his wedding ring cut off

The faces of four beautiful women
who sit in chairs, in the living room,
         reading parts of newspapers,

My anger is such that the very ice-fields would melt,
if I had the power.
If I had the power.

Dusk—and the shimmer on the sea
has quickened and gone still. The large,
lithe Hurricane birds soar in circles

In a dream of sex & blindness,
boats grow rare on a river.

In a meteor shower which I feel but can’t see

“Beginning at five o’clock, just before dawn rises
in the rear-view mirror, I drive at eighty, alone,
all day through Texas. I am a pencil extending

The sun is a drum
                 the moon is a cymbal 
The flow of time is caught in a cup.

From where I stood on the bridge
I could see the moon, flapping on water, unable to escape.

She is lovely, Victorian, her auburn hair, upswept,
held by tortoise-shell pins and silver combs;