It was my first 3⁄4 length child. (Fumed oak.)
Look how funny her little arm is.

Barely tolerated, living on the margin
In our technological society, we were always having to be rescued
On the brink of destruction, like heroines in Orlando Furioso

The immense hope, and forbearance 
Trailing out of night, to sidewalks of the day 
Like air breathed into a paper city, exhaled 

Impatient as we were for all of them to join us, 
The land had not yet risen into view: gulls had swept the gray steel towers away 
So that it profited less to go searching, away over the humming earth 

It was always November there. The farms
Were a kind of precinct; a certain control
Had been exercised. The little birds

When they passed through a city, it was others knew it first.
The man claimed no lift in his shoe but an advertisement for the dance

I thought that if I could put it all down, that would be one way. And next the thought came to me that to leave all out, would be another, and truer, way.

clean-washed sea

The flowers were.

Here in the open, love lies apart,
singing to its beads. How reflective is that?

He has a lazy father in Minnesota.

I hope you never have to do this in life, with its crazy little darkened
rooms. People are standing, an accurate jumble. Famille rose happy campers.

They are preparing to begin again:
Problems, new pennant up the flagpole
In a predicted romance.