Through hours of England, swift, my angel, go:
high above towns
and green enormous downs

We open on a mystery,
a riddle has happened, will happen, will happen again.

What’s the point of experience

Alcoholic dream 
That run him 
                   out from home 

Glass 
and wide sea view
Race that walks

Who was Mary Shelley? 
What was her name 
before she married?

Just as the lonely, wicked, wild and glad
eyes know and do not know by letting drop
in every detail of their daily dread

Anent, ex-president, your cracking down
big time on drunkenness in Russia where
your reverie bloomed in and on the air

The beautiful and true
spreading of blood in water,
strands of it waving, surreally outward, 

I take her, painless, through the glass.
Her dress tears off. I covet that.
The glass is beautiful, sharp and steep—

Driving look out the window at where / The mail box used to be