This is the platform of the famous sideshow,
all of us participating, glad to be arm and arm
as spring charges down the battlefield. Let’s see,

A hears by chance a familiar name, and the name solves a 
      riddle of the past. 
B, in love with A, receives an unsigned letter in which the 

Privileges of Travel

You can’t forget you purchased it;
this private tour moves you

But when I least expect it, I find that
They are stirring cornstarch through my blood,
Mortaring the hinges of my knee.

Sad as you soaped me in the bath
And as you fidgeted with watches
You no longer fixed.

The sore trees cast their leaves
too early. Each twig pinching
shut like a jabbed clam.
Soon there will be a hot gauze of snow

How quickly we’re skimming through time,
leaving behind us
a trail of muffin crumbs
and wet towels and hotel soaps
like white stones in the forest.
But something’s eroded them:
we can’t trace them back
to that meadow where we began so eagerly
with the berry-filled cups, and the parents
who had not yet abandoned us
to take their chances in the ground.

I do not do well without my chattel.
I do not do well without doing what I will with my chattel.
My chattel my bodies my buildings my land.

 From the sky to the heavens’ heavens                                
 From the heavens’ heavens to the darkness on high                
     From the darkness on high to the upper dwelling       

I will go rent a U-Haul, and move to Hackensack,
And a cheap condo buy there, the driveway freshly tarred,
Hard by the Jersey turnpike, a swingset in the back,