He speaks to me so that my whole
         drift gathers to his verse:

So strains of your argument bear
great darkness and then gleam,
and I do not lose the rhetoric of your approach.

Mary and Baby Jesus in back of a plane.
In the cockpit was Pontius the Pilot.

How do you find yourself in literature?
All blue-eyed, drinking from green bottles.

He drops—untransformed within the ho-hum
Calx of creation—aged and yet unflowered.

There’s a box for her femur and pelvis,
and one more for her ankles and vertebrae.

I see it like a movie screen:
salty green horizon, cloudy blue water.
You step, a pillar on the deck,

You can do that with words, use one
for the other.

forever looking down for what I've lost:
a strand of fate I snipped and dropped and dread

She stumbled on it. The story
had wrapped itself around her so long,
tapping and typing its coy music, that finally