Shall I come to see
plum blossoms in every stream
and wet my sleeves

I expect the holy of holies must be 
to watch machinery making machinery,
no? Begin with the others and do what they do, 

I was trying to write like an adult. 
I had children. 
I was at the end of something.

If you extract the compact planet,
roughly sketched with jungle, wetlands,

When he slide it in the slot and press
the buttons in their order, wait,
he’s empire-building. Damn straight.

The way I had it figured as a kid,
This Mercury would be a relic now
Mounted in some museum, on display

As I write                  The getting & losing of it 
into                           beer, my right hand
the secret                  branches radiate from

On the                          ...Madrid, last capitol of the silence...

invisible                        thru corridors of 9,000 lungs, wand/legged ladies
                                    protected from slow muffle machines

There is finitude in ice and icy finitude
in public realms. The of-a-pieceness of it. It
maddened me, I wanted life to shatter. Glitter

Alders, their roots' snarl in marshy soil.
Furtive roads, all summer dust, past
still ponds—a miniature vista