I think of the old pipes,
how everything white
in my house is rust-stained

they brought handwashing experts to prep school
one day.

We could be each other’s great tragedies had the world not slaked us already.

We stay in the apartment of a Croatian couple, husband and wife, both in love with our friend M.

Sun guzzles quick down August’s throat.

The valley otherwise
charred, this glade is
old-growth miracle.

The big-voice flashers.
Wings of metal and night.

Peak gust and west of July.

He wanted no money,
had nothing to sell,
didn’t boast or brag or bitch

Let her renounce sight and be unseen. Let her
cough ground coral in the shedding of a pewter
moon, that she, of all the innocents, should live.