Had she not lain on that bed with a boy
All those years ago, where would they be, she wondered.

Does the erotic exist outside architecture? The shepherd 
asleep, the shepherd awake—his staff in his hand. Sweet 
are the fields of. Exiled from home am. A sandwich of 

Some days, everything is a machine, by which I mean 
remove any outer covering and you will most likely 
find component parts: cogs and wheels that whir just 

From where she sat she could see
a sundial, but she couldn't read it.
Time was a brush fire burning somewheres,

It's time for the feasting that follows the four men it took
to carry the dead monster's head.
Just look at the clock—

“The quick brown fox jumps
Over the lazy dog”: it was a little bedtime story

Pres spoke in a language
“of his own.” What did he say, between the
horn line

What is a verse not to be thought 
in the oval rows of the stadium, where 
crowded 

You have come to the edge in your T-shirt and tennis shoes,
the trail map snapping in the sudden wind, and there,

like nothing you had imagined, nothing

The imagination, improvising, translated burly leather 
into an overcoat of armor, converted brawn to iron. 
For wrinkled folds, die-tooled metal plates