Ladies, it is late. The lake is ice.
You've surely seen the heron fly beyond
the great black oak. And watched the robins go,

It’s driving into all that goldness makes
You blind, she said. The road oats, timothy
The mustard hung beside the highway like

To get proper grapes you’ve got to
breathe on them some,
fog ’em up, thin the skins.

Seen that sign, back west a ways?
The one on the warehouse, in a movie marquee?
Blessed Hope, it says. Blessed Hope, she said.

She Said in the LADIES,
in the rest area LADIES on the road to 
Terre Haute. Plenty of angels, she said again. 

Female flesh 
Dissolving into artichokes 
Exploding stars 

The subway when
no one’s there, and then
the train is screaming.

Somewhere a boat is leaking
I don’t know where.

You have a little smudge on your forehead, dear,
like a smashed raisin cookie.

“O.K. imps, snot-freaks, pill-elves,
hi-fi fairy-fury flipsters and intelligences,
its out, all out now onto the rooftops—