Summer was dry
but the farmers forget
and plow the dead stalks under.

How grace made us out, late apples
Quailing already on the branch,

While Frenchmen kissed, I gave man wings.
Reportedly I dreamed of birds. The hills along the post road
once lined the floor of a vast inland sea; behind the foundry,

sun is first coming through the eucalyptus early morning

the question you asked
in the center of the world we were making

Undone. Only a head, a fine
cheek and throat his chisel cut
from white. She waits to become a thought,

Night arrives solid and heavy
more than several blocks long—to displace
its weight and float like a tanker over us.

When I was a teacher 
I taught the truth, viz., 
The two great levelers are 

when out walked I
down fell the sky,
a backward boom

His kind decree: we should not cut ourselves
Upon sharp edges;
So, when that parent rib was fleshed,