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 

After the first death there is a shrinking.

Miracles to fit in a spoon.

The sun rolling crazy and free as the wheel of an old baby buggy.

The fishermen lug in their nets, the take’s
Too small, the natural’s shunted aside
For derricks busy recouping the wastes

This could be Jeffrey Rosen’s car
or a poem about the night.

Only two can be riding in it.

Walking a long time in the fields of the dead
I stopped where the grass
flared thickly, and leaned on a stone

     The slippery piglet, clear across the way,
has had my tree cut down.
He rang a man who rang a man who knew

Something isn’t right with me. 
We climb in the hot July 
car three thousand feet from Laramie