Love is like a garden in the heart, he said.
They asked him what he meant by garden.
He explained about gardens. “In the cities,”

The shadows behind people walking
in the bright piazza are not merely
gaps in the sunlight. Just as goodness

Night after night he walks the Paris he knew.
Searches out each place. Hotel Duc de Bourgoin
on Ile Saint Louis, the primitive room

I was getting water tonight
off-guard when I saw the moon
in my bucket and was tempted

whose eyes are a fair, spiky green
I only see on my hands
and knees at spring's initial offerings, how

Thomas Bottle was thinking of all the things he hated: hair down his back when he got a haircut; his Aunt Fern’s kitty litter; ringworm; the loud women in baseball caps who came every summer to paint the ocean below his house; and Jehovah’s Witnesses who came to sell him Awake! and The Watchtower. 

Show the runner coming through the shadows,
  show him falling into a speckled rhythm,
  and then show the full expression of light,

Dead Heat

For years the thought of you scorched my eyeballs
Now all is well under the scalding sun.

Out where Lethe meets the sea, past the bend
in the long arm of water, where the waves
gesture casually at the beach, is rest.

I built my home
in threatening handsome young men
on the basketball court.