That is where the coal ash is headed, not somewhere
but to you who are farther downstream
than me.

I know that feeling you have: wanting the world,
at last, to yield something, the way liquor does—
an angle, an idea, a color, a deepening.

So much for the fighting
                                                 and the sex

The facts sit in an ordinary room. They resemble people:
stubborn and without imagination.

As a child, my hand closed over a centipede,
There was a penny in my mouth

When I enter the cemetery
of San Felice a Ema
I have to go past many tombstones

People talk and talk more
about black holes.

Concerning the universe, the city of God,
we know very little.

Husbands
fill up
the whole world

You swing yourself
from hour
to hour.