who came whirling out of the North 
like a locust-swarm, storm-darkening the sky, 
their long hair whipping in the wind like the manes of horses, 

child sprung from
the two of us—showing
us our ideal, the way

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

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

My letter to you fell into a river 
so deep, so fast…, and the clear-eyed pages 
tumbled onward. I will never 

My mother, who opened my eyes, who
brought me into the terrible world,
was guilty. Her look apologized: