“Hold, just grab the grass,” counseled my link
to the humanized, floricultured top,
when, on the incoming tide, the waves
tall and brown in a fog, basaltic

A closer look reveals the blue-dark knot
undone, the torn tissues of the lips,
the disheveled velvets and violet silks
of a woman hurrying to a tryst

Put one hand
Next to a light-switch
With the other hand
Feeling for the wall.

The windows stream with fish,
the gold luck of carp,
the tiny silver luck of minnows,
while the earth gives back her wealth

Her heart fails her and the body holding it
lies on its side, the lungs taking on fluid
so it will be, we are told, like drowning
we can’t stop and each week’s watch is a hot

Alexander, first over the wall,
collapsed battered by stones. Instantly
the Macedonian companions
gathered their shields over his body

  Where is paradise without the gate?
Ask any gardener, his bags of bonemeal busy
  keeping the weedy world at bay.
Within its boxwood walls, like that great kitchen

Posters of Juliette Greco, the Eiffel
Tower. A good French bistro in the Village,
Its cuisine by some oversight not yet
Widely known; all the more murmured over

The first time I saw it, I thought what an ugly specimen. It looked like Grandma’s bathing cap, grown green and small after all these years. I sliced it open and tasted the pale flesh. And gradually she offered herself up leaf by leaf. In her depths she held a tiny, faded star, a spark that fell in the meteor shower over Frank’s garden. 

The trees were soon hushed in the resonance
of darkest emerald as we rushed by
on 322, that route which took us from