To enter the field without speaking
Of the bad years is to trust what is

Buried, or at least sleeps. All I bring to dirt
Will rise again through green, what survives

That is why uprooted fields meandered in the midst of roads

Sound a brake followed nothing it’s flower withers between ninety-two cobblestones.

the glance is filtered in the plaited reflection of glass buildings

So quick were the men to agree to circumcision.
They all stumbled around the city for days.
Then my brothers killed them. Bless their rampaging 

Those lolling china heads and rag-stuffed arms
will never love us in return, said Rilke,
whose mother dressed him like a girl, whose charms

One last stop, he says. And they drive to Westside Lanes. 
I grew up bowling. I don’t want to bowl. It was raining. 
We’re not going to bowl, the circus carpet dark with gum 

Okay         A nightingale 
does sing 
                 outside this window 

Sleeping within earshot of the Aegean
once more, I forget where I am
a second & mistake the surfs white noise
for rain, unheard-of here

A toe dances under my nose         My eye
Takes it from there, moving on up peekaboo style
Over ankles and calves past kneecaps to thighs—