Imagine a dot
On the horizon: that is
Him, your beloved.

Slicked
    with a birther’s goo, it 
    gleams up green from the ground— 

When I returned to the hive I was one
Among many, in a blistering hum;
A braid of air had brought me far from home,

Aurelian,
        who studies the emergence of butterflies 
from chrysalides,

Once in the sweet dark of an empty house,
All alone while the others slept upstairs,
I knelt before a memorial candle

So many poems begin where they
should end, and never end.
Mine never end, they run on

The last words the sea spoke
before it died, the last sigh
of the great wind that blew

Between the freeway
               and the gray conning towers
of the ballpark, miles

We planted it in May of thirty-three.
Strange times for us. How could a child explain
The helpless eagle on the ice-box door,

They love me.
Each morning they fill the strongbox
in my chest with grass
and salt pellets—I have good hallucinations.