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

You’re shadow and light,
a composition of tonalities.

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

Night has dropped its black gelatin
on New York City—scattered aureoles
of windows. Snow

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.

 A certain eminent alchemist wrote of that country that it is to be found wherever it has been placed by the first and most important need of the human mind, the same need that called into being geometry and science, philosophy and religion, morality and art. The above-mentioned alchemist—he was an ally of Descartes—also wrote that the name of the country