Until the lid is on the box
the box we are is open
except when it’s not

Dogs bark, say the Russians,
But wind blows it away.

My head emerging from this paper box—
not heavy but sufficiently opaque
and put there up across my balding pate

Nothing in all the world is quite so lonely as a lover who wants to love but loses his beloved in a jungle the two of them helped one another create, plant by tree by vine.

Rose petal, rose mouth, rose, open to humming
beaks and hairy bees, swinging warm
in sun, rose wet with inner dew,

Everyone has advice, lots of suggestions,
Some bring him plastic bowls, tin cans,
Old buckets; someone with half a degree

No definition tells you rooms exist:
touch them too hard, too long, and like mimosa
they close against a stem so sightless green

Our ancient lives enhanced their lively wit 
We hissed the cave shut with an angry spyt 
The hills will stagger down the mountain’s rind.

He thinks of iced tea, free in the South
after one glass (he would drink a gallon).
Tea iced was introduced in Chicago