Since it is Sunday and there is still time,
I think, instead of walking in the woods

Seeing the courted, won, become
So like the frog one kissed,

A goateed sage
chews salvia against toothache
salivates as the new kitchen maid frosts a cake

Facing the music of desires you
Forgot what would become of you;blew it

We sensed the words he used he didn’t quite
Have meanings for. When he did well, we felt
He faltered where it didn’t show, inside;

Taking the Westward walk at sundown now
She looks across the field back of the house
And catches liquid reflections of the sun

I passed him by at first. From the photograph
Peered sepia eyes, blindered, unappeased

Bolts

The logs of wool jersey plastered with labels
Lay in the lint and litter, columns in a heap

Seen from above (real seeing always looks down:
do worms worry about God?), nothing grows up,

No definition tells you rooms exist:
touch them too hard, too long, and like mimosa