The starlings are singing!

You could call it singing.

Scatter your lines like willow leaves
                  a summer storm tears at the weeping withys
sprinkle with words this sheet as the wind

It clears away: the rain
is only rain that didn’t fall.
I got my hair cut.

Good afternoon, John in Paris. Can you hear
your city station by transatlantic phone?
“This one or that.” Of course I don’t know who the tenor is.

Like one pumpkin from among the corn shucks
risen into a cold sky’s deepest blue;
or rolled in winter down heaped sea-chewed rocks,

on Greenwich Avenue
staring down Jane Street
into the sunset

When I sat in the square in Cuernavaca
Outside the church of the conquistador,
Wondering if Malinche had ever loved Cortés

The freeway tracks the Han River which flows
west out of the mountains we are heading toward.
This morning it is river-colored, grey-green,

A dune begins with an obstacle—a stone, a shrub, a log,
anything heavy enough to resist being moved by wind.

I woke up thinking abouy my brothr’s body.
That q That was my first bit of early morning typing
So the first dignity, it turns out, is to get the spelling right.