Reading this, you are waiting for the curtain
        To go up on a glade, vistaed valley
Or colonnade of lath. Yet you are not here

January 29th

Black-white-black the flock of scaup
pushing hard against whittles of the tide.

Some blossoms are so white and luscious, when they
hold their long thin hands up you strip them for love
and scatter them on the ground as you walk;

We grappled that bird quiet between us
carefully holding its wings folded
and by whispers trying to calm the wild

The houses look at one another,
a language of windows.
The violin stands above the collar. . .

I fell with my father through space
In a space module as round
                  as your thumb

Watch out for power
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

The honey, the humming of a million bees,
In the middle of Florence pining for Paris;
The whining trembling the cars and trucks hum

In the garden. Sun
on the river
flashing past. I

When I am dead and gone
they will say of me,
“We never could figure out