I lost the time of day about three weeks ago
right after the siesta in the trembling rain,
right after the blue dream in the saffron forest,

First there was the revelation that I did not matter.
There was a kind of freedom in that.
I could stand in my office above the garage,

What does it matter where I speak from?
The dog lying breathless at my feet,
Torpid in this humid heat,

It was a hard winter for the old eskimo,
Sent out on an ice floe by those he loved
More than life, more than seal blubber,

I got off my plane in a strange country
And saw you standing in the airport
With a blind smile, your eyes like diamonds,

Despite the enormous evening sky
spreading over most of the canvas,
as moon no more

March is the start
of the incontinent season.
My father would have been

Though we’re pages apart this time,
just being in the same issue
is like being at a party together.

What there was was a spherical rock in sunlight:
the full moon—its light on the strange but known
place to the east—over our side of the river.

The bees came for their flowered blouses.
   “Oh! Oh! Can’t we wear them anyway?”
A visit with coffee, phrases and clauses—