Where there’s no quarrel, but there’s fate
A scream unhurried of music’s choice

But men married in New York or else women
Dominate the pavement from where they stand,

Had the king of Uruk never wrestled Enkidu,
the wild man of the steppe, and just barely defeated him
on points, he never would have fallen in love with him

Shall I give up on salvation
And suppose the unit of life isn’t the self.
As I always assumed, but the twenty houses

And where begins our not-quite-romance? An ill summer
passed without the hummed comfort of air-conditioning.
Heat scumbled into the corners of Cambridge: ivory our suburb

Even the few here who regard themselves as aliens
Declare with their window boxes that they' re not ungrateful
For the happenstance of being alive,

The moon as brittle as a tooth

The moon mistaken 
For a fortune coming true

Wrong shirt at Ocean Park—
what you want preps an elementary doxy
for dogmatic chasing.

I asked you to have faith in me!
But the four comers of the world smile dumbly.
Envious as the mountain

The secret is
not to be afraid, to
pour the salt, letting your wrist