The page no longer lies flat, it blinks and rises.
The words assume green or yellow vestments,
and officiously obstruct the way forward

The river tows its dreams,
consigned to the dim edge of existence,
reciting dull epics to desolate piers.

The invitations were returned
or people arrived on the wrong evening,
so your worst fears were fulfilled

As in an old memoir, the rhododendrons were over.
Hunger persisted, and the light was weak—
the light of music and books, the light paintings cast

It was late in the year
and forests were burning a long way off
the day the smoke arrived, almost unperceived.

Each year the monuments grew larger.
The citizens demanded this.
As their lives got worse they wanted

In this respect the patriarch was almost certainly
      mistaken

No, we cannot be the amorous ballet the tourist
      requires for a backdrop—

At the center of so much counterpoint
sleep is impossible, and the garden is crushed
into something like a pill the night will swallow.

The same ideas or different ones condense,
and you don’t have to sleep again.
Garbage is necessary. That’s another issue