It rests on tiny roots, a vision of angles,
And lives long.

It has no passion for gossip and little need for the usual,

To keep his blessed armor hard he ate
                                lean meat, cruciferous greens, few 
                                grains. He liked his instants

we called the game Jenny made up driving
back roads through West Virginia

at twice the speed on signs. Foot on

Poor Collins sung the gradual, waiting,
Praying for Eve to arrive. And, while bidding
         For her, sure of failure,

We had been looking at an idol in a glass case,
size of a hand, admiring her tough little knobs
and the ball of her belly some barren woman

His Irish accent
He jumps you in the subway
I love you

if you rub the back of your child
at bedtime
his wife will be happy

I can’t but for doing,
I guess, put my eye
against crossing

1.     At first, I thought I was an angel.
I was alone & the black air
hummed with moths with the smell

On the cover of the book of 19th-century
etchings, three lady bicyclists, 
their black eyes fixed on the front wheels,