Maybe the story is clear,
most well while you're here,
maybe there's something to say
while you're in for a stay.

Take up a chair at
the bottom of the stairs,
it was time
you owed him a visit-

and a story,
of your travels,
in the fall,

and a story,
shall unravel,
revels small.

He won't mind
your perpendicular phrases,
or the way your jaw adjusts.
It's not long for a visitor here,
not the way he elicits dust.
Not long for a visitor here,
your time on earth he trusts.

There may be something that depends on thee-
you hi-sprung holly which is dainty in the forest,
resting in your lawless ways a cudgel of berries.
Tease then, deny me, mammal inappropriate for your stock,
your bounty is more for the nimble of hock,
who have a stomach stranger to mine,
who needs't not pay me any mind.

Force here will do no good, no,
which confuses me by force of reason,
misleads me through whorls of rhyme.

I fell in love once,
it was confusing.
Perhaps to un-know!
Oh, how my names elude me.

Why do you not speak?
I ask the brush.
Your wild body hangs down.
Here, green arrow leaves,
here, a dead tree, surroundings clear,
and, here, five-pointed wild flowers
that are deep purple.

I dare not speak,
it answers,
for here is all I have,
I am here for no one to listen,
to be haphazard against the din.
When fire breaks out,
I am torched,
When the moonrock shines,
I hum inaudibly.
But by the time you have come and gone,
the delicate dance is right and wrong,
strong you are, like the water,
and I weather like rock,
you sing, you suffer.

By mirror I saw her as my own,
she sat undressed, pity slouched,
makeup putting on, then,
by ice we were separate,
man I alone in she,
riga mortis and she dies,
I say -
no! stay back!

as my throat holds,
I am left alone in blue,
black water besides
my earthen trail,
yet all I see is you.

668

“Nature” is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.

Through winter's pale
and heart's formation
held the glass-eye prism,
which split the light
like morning dew,
handless icicles,
blood withdrew.

My maid,
a domestic woman,
stands in my doorway.
Her short fat legs
bend inward,
they are bruised.

My maid,
a domestic woman,
stands in my doorway
looking into my eyes,
she has brought groceries
for she cooks,
and she cooks so well
that I think of her children
who live in another country
who know her only by
white envelopes
filled with my cash.

At night,
I'll take my
socks off
and watch television,
then I look at
her and she is smiling
at her cellphone.