Wind from the northwestern quarter is lifting him high above
the dove-gray, crimson, umber, brown
Connecticut Valley. Far beneath,

Everything has its limit, including sorrow
A windowpane stalls a stare; nor does a grill abandon
a leaf. One may rattle the keys, gurgling down a swallow.

Oh! was it in woman’s nature to hear him, and not to cherish
every word? It was Glenarvon—that spirit of evil whom she
beheld; her soul trembled within, and felt its danger.

the angels might get so sad
knowing what I do
as I mourn over you

ripped apart like a daisy oracle
huddled in the empty arms of your real estate
i turn you over in my mind as on a spit

Fillmore alleyway window frame fat woman,
drunken, at kitchen greasy oil-clothed table
half gallon carton of milk and a fifth. Dark,

Fillmore alleyway window frame fat woman,
drunken, at kitchen greasy oil-clothed table
half gallon carton of milk and a fifth. Dark,

when i’m in someone else’s new york style apartment
i like virtually anything that’s playing on the fm radio
when i’m at home i can’t find anything that i like

   What are you cutting down, my boy?
   What are you erasing?
Off the bilgey bottom, off the petrifying weighs

Apathy and delirium sun themselves on the porch.
All the old dragons loll along the beach.
Such lightning has rather a hazy lurch.