She looked like milk.
She smelled
like vines curled with fruit.

I could go out like that,
sucked to a whisper like the midtown
tax building explosively leveled

Peekèd, they peer into the future.
They have unsteady bottoms to their ships,
eleven thousand sea-sick virgins

While I wait I copy the smallest details,
how experts supposed a violent end, this corpse
an ill-fated soldier. A musketball to the leg. Another

Years have passed since you were in my city—
our city, then-and certain aspects of a certain day
remain with me like film in a goblet after wine.

Why does the speaker stop by the woods?
would you have stopped be honest
would you care to be in New England

The reason that I choose this flat
Prosey tone is that I know the truth
Will not be found in elaborate fountains

In 1954, in June
I saw a total eclipse of the sun by the moon.
I saw the flowers fold up, the birds

Then love introduces the expensive dream
Of peace into this last report on the future

Of the past, as the pen snaps

A pleasant meadow
where sleeping maids lay
one cousin awakes