Yellow apple
star inside the apple
seed star     quiet

New Hampshire: the sound
of fast water in cascades,
a miniscule toad

Ultimate, white-haired
bandaged at the eyes like judgement
you lie at the hospital stainless faucets and the pipes

The Knight of the Trepan is Christ, who lives in me and who passes through my skull day after day like a needle. He wears leather breeches that resemble English silks. His face is encased in a helmet that shows only two glass eyes and a mouth with moving wet lips.

    Heaven bribes me;
But for a dream
I have only to lie down.

The list of small deformities passed unrecorded
In the stupor of heredity,
Like our weather,

Under the Mirabeau Bridge there flows the Seine                    Must I recall          Our loves recall how then After each sorrow joy came back again

This morning I killed more wasps
Than I could count.
My thumb jammed on the spray-can.

Things that divine us we never touch:
The black sounds of the night music,
The Southern Cross, like a kite at the end of its string,

Sometimes I sit in my blue chair trying to remember
what it was like in the spring of 1950
before the burning coal entered my life.