Professor Palamedes darts down Westow Street.
Nothing explains how he avoids
Colliding with mutton, plastics, pianos.

It’ll never be built, that house,
what do you say.

A sort of cypress reached
Halfway up the longer window;
I came to live here, all the same.

Those only who were bored as Ulysses
Ever came home. The remnant soldiering on
Dwelt on the pet names round their hated seas,

Its blue cathedral is trembling into the marrow
of my mouth. Its sharp houses split open

every string, then still into the trotting

Rooting in brittle mortar—
gypsum plaster, sand, and water—
bougainvillea grew around the arches,

To our ruined vineyards come,
Little foxes, for your share
Of our blighted grapes, the tomb
Readied for our common lair
Ants, we open you the cupboard;
Flee no more the heavy hand
Harmless as a vacant scabbard
Since our homes like yours are sand.

In a dream of sex & blindness,
boats grow rare on a river.

In a meteor shower which I feel but can’t see

A film of mist clings to the storm windows
as the thunder gets pocketed and carried away
in the rain’s dark overcoat. A good reading night—

just go crazy, I say now to the flower