It’s late, and for once
your radio turns on by itself,
with a stereo broadcast

Because we thought we had to know everything
About each other, only did already
Without realizing it, a sense of false

Tonight in the Southwest
Sadness is disappearing

Tonight in splash-marks

Be fearful
                if you wish to awaken in yourself the instinct of
                the Beautiful;

Rectangularity controls the setting
Of tables, the organization of paint
On canvas, and the sport of ping-pong.

It seems someone else was interested in order, too—
The squat trees edging away down the slope
In wavy lines like rivulets—but wasn’t very good at it.

Call it windfall

finding your calculation

come, finally,

The shadow of the photographer reaches over
almost to the wee tyke in a sombrero who listens
to the music these horny hardrock miners are making

A man once rode away on a yellow crane,
leaving only this empty pavilion.
Once gone, the yellow crane never returns;

Every night they went a little farther.
Restless, too hot to sleep
under the too-bright quilts she had made as a girl