The weight falls downward of its own volition
Bringing to the ground its iron embrace

So gay on your lovely head 
The hat cradles the specialty 
Of the house brand-new 

I was thinking where are we all going when we were 
Going through the snow on the ground, underbrush 
Beneath like the New England personality going 

On Sunday afternoon in Georgia I had nothing to do
So I sent myself back to Georgia underwater
In the traditional manner of the English

 Innumerable scratches on the shore
        Like an old alley shot toward the stars

All my life I had hoped someday to own
at least myself, only to find I am
Flood’s ligaments, the aureole of Mamma,

The ridge road takes the ridgespine every way
It turns. It threads the granite venebrae
And old. wind-dwarfed ponderosas that twist

Behind the chains and sawblades on the north wall of the shop, I found the packrat’s nest, his fetishes:

Into disappearance
The leaves let go

Tonight in the Southwest
Sadness is disappearing