The eyes of your eyes not yet
open. Tongue. Bud lip. I come
to watch the heart

So that all day he’s stared the mountain down
its myth of windowsill, followed by, live, sight
of an oak shaking as a fever into leaf, alone

Aphra Behn is not wearing all her clothes 
in some part of South America nobody knows. 
Everyone is polite, and not. Maybe she left off 

It is true, it is true
Sing the whippoorwills slightly off-key
In the small city park at night.

It was just a walk down the hall
—the teacher, my mother, and me, skipping—
to another world.

First, go to Hell—I mean, seek out the Halls
                of Hades and his consort,
Persephone the Dread. Here’s what you’ll need:

This is a city of bridges,
though the water has mostly fled;
a city of ambitious span

Yes. I have seen the end, and yes,
I was disturbed by what I saw.
That I yet glimpse occasional

He’s come to the beginning of the end
Of the poem, the moment when he turns
To place the first of its words on paper.

Flags snap inland as the water scales. Try again.
The ocean’s scales point toward shore