Because water and sewer mains are destined
In corruption to flow together
Toward death's vast leavening.

What the sun does to a flower,
Leaching its all-precious

We were having a picnic by the river.
We watched it land, their glistening ship
Fat as a Buick. The aliens were suntanned

By silence he meant it's bad enough
To squander words on paper. Don't waste them.
Along with your breath, on air. By exile

Nakedness isn’t guilty,
But it’s never unaware. At night
The white blossoms go on

In all honesty, saying this
As if reaching out to hold your hand
And attest to a truth, my tongue

Knowing that Penn had dabbled, periodically,
in paints, noting the modest watercolor

The cat run over and killed in the street
Came back to life and stood on its feet:

Having a crush was how I existed —
how I spent recess; I wandered
dull fields gone brilliant

In the branches the light

                   so that the limbs

                            go out