They faced each other on the oval knoll
and drew in the dirt the face they sat across from,
first with a finger and again with a stick

I will not give in. I will grow more strange.
I will wrap myself around your ghost till the ghost
itself wants letting go, till it shimmers free.

He jettisoned our aspersions with sailing gestures ,
sucking clean the invidious indifference,
spitting unethical sounds that pealed the spirit,

I would enquire of you
The Slinger leaning forward askt
One of the 4 Great Questions

The darkness rings.
                                    the surface from
              of the face, a halo

             My stepfather stood on the corner
by the national bank, quiet

When I heard he had entered the harbor,
and circled the wharf for days,
I expected the worst: shallow water,

It is Sunday, day of roughhousing. We are let out in the woods. The young boys wrestle and butt their heads together like sheep—a circle forms; claps and shouts fill the air. The women, brown and glossy, gather round the banjo player, or simply lie in the sun, legs and aprons folded.

On the radio a canary bewailed her luck
while the county outside was kicking with rain.

A bench, a sofa, anyplace flat—
just let me down
somewhere quiet, please,
a strange lap, a patch of grass . . .