But the sun will set, she knows; its ruddy dooms
Be snuffed like matches, low windows dark once more.

A redhaired man in a rusty salt & pepper van

If you want to do something you have to do it yourself

Your mother said it was all right for you, he said

Probably easier to be dead in the city,
she opined, but also easier to be alive

It did not ask but kicked the door with steel-toed boot
And took possession, one of the roughs: tough,
                      vertiginous, destitute.

The sea of pages; MelvilIe in older age:
The grown man’s sleepy defiance of denial.

I flew onward alone, north
in my Mallard Sprinter, accompanied
by charm and ignorance and that old American

 Riding to the Great Northern Wilderness
we sang about self-correction in the club car,
dreamed up new crimes to put in our autobiographies

take them with a grain of salt. Sincerity
remember is in the mind of the beholder

The rounds of seasons, this year’s style or that
Year’s loss; core sample of eternity.

We had a candle ready and watched the lightning
Shred up from the landing field in the valley