Breath through the flute like light constrained
in a prism, rays, and is made to weave
a tense web trembling as the notes blow over a

The wind and the rain, the trees swung like a bell
all across Massachusetts in the fall,
and the torn fog steaming from the yellow mountains,

   Grieving takes its lyric turns,
         anciently,
            sometimes en pointe.

    Lack-luster      We told them these were our “long, empty
     friends and     hours” and that we’d nap or primp,
acquaintances     but instead we rose to all the trappings

Dear Emile, I'm tolerating the tribute
of these flowers in the garden you once planted—
their modulating wits, the conspiratorial

Gothic flowers bedded themselves
in the edges of this night, the night
when a bullet pierced her rib precisely,

An anemone
                                     comes a little furtively,
                                         only slightly—it waits to be drawn.

Gaily experienced and somewhat accidental
The disaster which overtook them
Surrounded the discameled travelers.

In the rain, get your hands off my trickling face!

Sometimes, even when it feels necessary, it’s hard to improve
  upon, much less “Revolutionize Your Life” — as some
  people, somewhat grandiosely, tend to phrase it;