nothing that you can hear
but the cold creek moving
over the old pebbles

Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air—
an armful of white blossoms

Night has just begun to have its say.

The Cubans are vaccinating anything
live they can find and burning the rest.
My childhood pours gasoline over the toppled cows and pigs,

So why do we care when the door accordions open
To some total stranger’s paradise without us?

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,

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,