No one said the spasm of battle would last forever. Nor asked: Is there a violence sadder than the word island? Said: you have found a ruse and will reinvent it forever. Swords will continue to cams from sheaths, the crest will lodge the fiery moon and from now on a tangled mass of sails will signify exalted impatience, not the traditional annoyance of fear.

The gravid gecko lies
aslant a stalk of banana, 
just a tilde over

You knew how things open,
a flower, a jail, an eye
and at the very last, a hand.

Sometimes when I am working 
In the forest clearing brush from 
The hemlocks, a wood nymph approaches 

She was only a woman, and no more 
than his latest wife who was commanded 
not to come before him without the grant

Cézanne has placed a surly easel
in what is still not there.
He feels the geology of absence,

I wish I had one of those electronic keyboards where you can plug in pre-recorded sounds that correspond to different keys. I’d compose an homage to insomnia— barking dogs and hammer blows and car alarms played over and over, the inverse of a lullaby‚ a score without a shred of respite.

You were gravely pulling up his best necktie,
Smoothing down his collar for that calm journey.
He drew off the body. a limp, soiled garment,

It didn’t want your sympathy and had no need
Of affection, the hot breath of your infatuate regard.
A building razed, a jungle come, river run to dust,

Sometimes, even when it feels necessary, it’s hard to improve
  upon, much less “Revolutionize Your Life” — as some
  people, somewhat grandiosely, tend to phrase it;