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

he has read forty books in three hours,
including a dozen popular novels
and a difficult treatise on the bone structure of birds

The apples are a charcoal gray,
though they manage to shine hard
in the late afternoon's sheer. Rain

Miranda de la Rosa sang the blues
in crystal ball gowns
held his trophies high because

Everyone had the same IKEA bed.
                 She tied my wrists to hers, above my head.

Now I will tell Meader’s story; I have a moral in view.
He was pestered by a Grizzly so bold and malicious
That he used to snatch caribou meat from the eaves of the cabin.