He is no one I really know.
The sun-charred, gaunt young man
By the highway’s edge in Kansas
Thirty-odd years ago.

    These children playing at statues fill
The gardens with their shrillness; in a planned
And planted grove they fling from the swinger’s hand

Your staggered lenses, trained on an empty track,
recorded what straggled into view
and out again, a dust cloud and a leaning pack

Here are the snapshots from Horor Vacui

That’s me jumping off a cliff! 
That’s me throwing a lit match in a forest of drought! 

and I would lean in close and tell you that John Wick kills women like
he’s read feminist theory

After the family surgeon has severed my hand and wrist from the forearm. 
And I have carefully washed the separated hand with the connected hand. 
And done its fingernails, and put a drop of perfume at the pulse of the wrist. 

Tom washes the minerals first
before putting them on the table.
That way they gleam among the leaves.

I turn to enter, turning from those frozen
Sunfields, when I see the rage of flakes,
Diminished into shaves of gold, and streaming

Knowledge defeats its own end
approaching the state of heaven
when it envisions

Spring: the first morning when that one true block of sweet, laminar, complex scent arrives
from somewhere west and I keep coming to lean on the sill, glorying in the end of the wretched winter.
The scabby-barked sycamores ringing the empty lot across the way are budded—I hadn’t even noticed—