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

We chug and churn like clumsy gears, machined
for motion but clanking, slow, heavy with friction.

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

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,

He knows the way
across, he sees
where every stroke will lead.

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

Old Wordsworth’s world (who wrote a hundred hundred
sonnets, songs of rivers, lakes and trees)
was bowls of steaming porridge, moonlight, breezes

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.