The lapse of all streams is a form of weeping,
And the heaving swell of the sea.

And we were no more scattered
Like swallows, or flowing from the broken
Hill like shards, but the swallows as they were

I will not sleep.
Men sleep and the beasts sleep, and no one watches.
The paid watchmen going their rounds

                                                                                The rough skin,
hair coarse as thick hemp, begins to feel like the cracking
in spring but still somehow retains its weight as armor.

That old scene—monkey see and monkey do—
is done. That organizing grind, the grid,
is barred. Guerilla movements must exclude

Mornings like this—no drift
         to the canoe, no bass
at the lure—the shiver-calls of loons

Everything’s a couple sizes bigger: a sky
Cutting deep into the streets, hydrants
As hefty as the heads of oxen, the country’s flag

The dry, black branches of winter seen in flight
run singing. Come here to drink
translucent drops on fresh leaves.
Come over here, and try to light that wick.