Give me a word for the
mourning of houses when it rains
through an open window.

Barefoot Las Vegas. A place devoted
to the possibilities of a spark.

Funny how the unnecessary
can seem so important

The man stands in his boat in his oilskins
On a stream in Rhode Island,
Casting across the pool wedged under his bow

Already the butterflies yellow with August
And the Jersey shore piled with houses
There are train whistles in the distance

Arcades brick dust a rose lamp burns in the upstairs window
everything I will say I have said already         still again the
arcades the dust the light to be built by the bottle the box

The octopus is dead
who lived in Wylies Baths

No, I'm not the Austrian—you're confusing me
with Dora—the one who deserted Freud
before he had his chance to perfect her.

Chenille-skinned people are counting under the countryside
on resurrections by truck light off among the pines.

The red serpent of cattle, that eclipsed the old dreaming serpents:
there it still is, faintly, winding out of far lilac ranges