The bright green bulbs of apples crop up overnight.
I didn’t dream their soggy thup on the lawn
or the tree’s tarnished sconces for those home-grown bulbs
that dawn kindles, then eclipses.

I sit on the toilet with you.
I criticize your wardrobe when you’re looking okay

Naked TV wrestlers
turn my arm through the gentle ambience of Newtonian
              space.

Who would think it ever—
lasting? Patent, it seems, to be nothing
but what it is: one of the summering

The audience knows her.
She’s a stock character
in Kabuki dramas—

Above the East River,
dull ochre smoke hangs

You know the story? About the dark-eyed girl who seduces
the holy man and ends the long drought.

kept in the linen closet—
cut perfectly to fit

No lily grows from coal, the obscene mole descends
And wends, bending ahead of pressure from his home,
Digging the window and the door, filing the floor

It seems no air or any other thing 
Pretends to help; and you, defeated now,
But visibilities, your balm and clue,