Straw promise to vowel, up then why or be
forward on bind,
advent kind rested fare so

Our life stories are scary and droll,
Like masks children wear on Halloween
As they go from door to door

Straw promise to vowel, up then why or be
forward on bind,
advent kind rested fare so

I write my little song. And you call it
Guitar noodle. You write without you here.
And I call it the poem with you here in it.

Fulton near Pearl, dug up to lay new Fulton Center 
subway power lines, a stone wall, three feet high, 
in silt-muck seven feet below street level, inside it 

Sweet runs the water ever
out of spring and meadow,
frothing low, rising,

In a field of broken antlers, 
I’m holy
as the grass 

So often I dream of the secrets of satellites, 
and so often I want the moose to step 
from the shadows and reveal his transgressions, 

“Wall Street says that cake sales are low”
Or to put it bluntly
“Cake is fizz”

Experience teaches, but its lessons 
may be useless. I could have done without
a few whose only by-product is grief,