Out of love we fall ten times a day,
out of the marrow, out of luck,
out back into distractions and joys we rip off from prey,

Right on schedule, one century behind 
The little bird on William Wordsworth’s cuckoo clock 
Emerged from Time Itself, a home, to cuckoo. 

the Sea—turn yr Back on 
the Sea, go inland, to 
Dogtown: the Harbor 

The Island, the River, the shore,

the Stage Heads, the land, itself,

isolated, encased on three sides by

The faces of four beautiful women
who sit in chairs, in the living room,
         reading parts of newspapers,

Astride 
the Cabot 
fault,

I am the father of no country 
And can lie.
But whether mendacity 

i believe you, i
believe you. but 
tho you be the fool, 

Not the turmoil, the togas, the color TVs in the Forum—
he gawked at them with the eyes of a bumpkin,
but he smiled at them too. The tree.

One is solicitous of it
as a unique Himalayan rosebud
smuggled out of Nepal.