The forest comes down at night. She waits until the last tram has left, then sets off. She meets the drunks—with eyes half-shut they pass through her, they stumble but don’t curse. The forest walks steadily on. 

That light behind the Olympics at supper hour—
it takes a sky of clouds from here to there
to spot the sun, seam and snow just right.

Bob’s brother was born invisible, but through chance we can only call miraculous, he survived the delivery room and those dangerous early days on the planet. In fact, no one noticed him, although Bob’s mother did feel a second squeeze and jolt ten minutes after Bob was out. The 

In 1936 it was a hot spring in
Cincinnati
We were in English class and the

My Dalmation yearns to speak to me this morning.
She is more-than-elegant in her sleek musculature—
demure, nubile, oddly cat-like before breakfast.

I envy the violinist, the trainer of a mahogany bird
perched on his shoulder.

They carried the lamps out as if they were children.

The piano remained in the hall, like an obelisk,
as if to haunt the place we had to leave;

There is a cataract of blood over the dawn;
I know by watching
from the river’s fringes of wild grass

As if they were trying to build on a different thought
the clouds accumulate between sun and the city,
so the beams go wide and break into sheaves of light.