To the canyon that came so close
to touching me, I was nothing.
What good was a truck gearing down

        Swept Valley

Which sounds like something the wind
        would do:        

The woman is preparing her body for sleep.
She hangs the hair forward
and it almost touches her feet.

Moon is hobbled and placed in a field.
Listens to cicadas and watches the cripple
walk to the restaurants to play his bagpipe

As long as I struggle to float above the ground
and fail, there is reason for this poetry.
On the stone back of the Ludovici throne, Venus

This New England kind of love reminds me
of the potted chrysanthemum my husband
gave me. I cared for it faithfully,

Up the mountain again three years later,
rocking forward like a burro.
Breathing hard in and out.

The fête confused me. Guests played the part of gods.
There was a woman with white skin who stood
with her pale green robe open all night throwing roses.

Then a man comes easily through the trees
with some urgent duty, like Hermes with his orders
memorized. He is fearsome because he does not care

In this palace which is said to be
a replica of heaven