Burg, boro, ville, and wood, 
I hate those tiny towns, 
Their obligations. If I needed

When the poet arrived in our city
he was welcomed with storms and floods.
The earth turned to mud and the mud gave way

Moving across the light, on agitated hips,
She hurries away breadcrusts and grapestones 
And glances in mid-talk, as if from fear,

As I walk down NYC I wonder into the ground
Glee a short road across my face
To a sparrow observing from the cool agenda

On this day, anno 1966
The thin Scandinavian girl whose fine-nosed
                      white collie sniffs along the shaded walk.

Life is beautiful.             However
The only truly human, American expressions
                           of its staggering rich moments

United at first
ham and cheese fall apart and slip 
             through my trembling hands

Your body is this house,
collapsing into the seasons.

he brought in bags
filled with clicking rings
cut from the tails of arrow-headed rattlers

You are horrified.
Do you wish to understand?