The faces of children
encourage deeds
of innocence

Sea birds over the river
Hover in my dreams at night.

I have built a world for myself
slowly, and without design

Well, what can you do,
it was great fun while it lasted

I am one of those tainted, corrupted ones
who got green bile stuck in her throat,
who cant even speak

These holiday mornings when nobody
gets up at the right time to do what they do
so there’s nothing out there if you’re the one

The delectable names of harsh places:
Cilicia Aspera, Estremadura.
In that smooth wave of cello-sound, Mojave,

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