My mother wants to see me again. That means she’d like me
   to shave off my beard.

Let’s open
our mouths to the blue rain

cinders on your tongue like snow.

I’ll be waiting down by the broken mailbox,
            sniffing for letters.

         This night forgot us years ago
but could not wait you out.

What does he have to give? No less space
than usual opens above him,
outward to the Van Allen Belts and beyond,

The new theory of the universe predicts,
for instance, gravity. And history. It is correct.
It is complex. There are men too eager to know,

Because so much consequential thinking
happens in the rain. A steady mist
to recall departures, a bitter downpour

In Belgium on his day, servant girls knew
to stay away from the fields, because
he gave the cabbages large heads

We are going to dip English backward
by its Shakespearean tresses
arcing its spine like a crescent