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

Now, according to some sources,
new golfing trends are a commodity,
along with silence, and sweetness.

We talked about the great error
that you can live with
and really can’t afford to get.

The madhouse statuary seemed to dispel the pre-life we gave it. 
in sleep, to become the one bauble rescued from that  hoard, whose shapes 
no one now will know. It cannot be said they existed. Yet