He came here, and said, in passing,
“The town meeting was adjourned
due to the tower.” The expanding
image of the tower, and the shadow

of the adjournment creped and dovetailed,
until dissolving perceptions at the periphery
changed into what remained of the familiar
and washed away in diminishing September

twilight tributaries of great modern rivers, now
adjured, now forgotten. But, despite adjudication
and adjustment, a question remained, became a
void in the forest, flattened its shadow, biding its time.

The other marjoram and the clothes
Are chimes inverted for her story,
What if we had chives, asparagus?
And what, asparagus, if we had chives?

Why did all that rain fall
All day in the grounds
And on the bird feeders,
And through the clearing?

The neatest patrons are back,
Their statue tortured by your autumn sweater.
Then there is the storm of receipts.
The salad bowel needs sanding, but not this

Fall. Scatter the remaining marjoram like dust.
Sweet peas from melancholy gardens
Sautéed over her faux tofu.
Fruit flies like a banana.

Should it come to this, without remorse? Like that orange, feeble
and deciduous, while we waited with binoculars through that gray on gray
afternoon for the owl to spread its wings. Perhaps it did, past dusk,
behind the trees, under those vaguely baleen-formed clouds.

The clouds cast shadows on other clouds, as if holding them up against reality, even for our affirmation. Did you think of me this morning, over your Life cereal, and did you miss the fruit?  The “organic wholeness?” What is the determinant thing that dissolves?

The dissolution of the self-contradictory comes from the dissolution of the determinant thing. Arguments formed in apartments over a bowl of cherries or a bowl of ****, or some such. Loss of a determinate thing (under Article 1262, par. 1.) is the equivalent of impossibility of performance in obligations to do referred to in Article 1266. We are left with the form of a bowl, perhaps a ginger bowl, or some form of lost lacquer.

The distinct lack of skyscrapers from SoHo up through Chelsea was said to be a function of Manhattan bedrock. But modern materials seem to have overcome that problem. Getting on the subway, he heard someone say “…as if each word is born with another word, and spends its life on lines looking for the perfect rhyme". "You know they mate for life," he thought, "the swans. If one is killed, the other often dies of boredom.”

“What we need now,” he said,
“Is new ideas.” They started to fall
like snowflakes on that late sharp
November evening when we first

saw the altered light, over the Alpine
lake surrounded by cities who’s
population, as discerned through
quick perusal of the census charts,

fluctuated with unprecedented
irregularity, reminding you of
Andolian snow-capped mountain peaks.
You  followed bits of this, like normal,

But found a pattern did not emerge.
The orange was sharp, ****, and
beautiful. Thousands were pulling
their Geiger counters out of closets

filled with unused sports equipment,
scarves, cleaning supplies, and brick-a-brac.
We pointed to tell-tail streaks left down
the hallway, but the planters never bloomed.

I remember, you wore the pink
slip that drove me into the red.
Things seemed insurmountable, but
you were not inconsolable -- white
lies helped. Later, like this,
we were tickled pink.
Although, elsewhere, thousands died.

I wonder about Austria. Is it anything like cancelled Czechs?
Do pigs fly? Is there a stranger there, to complicate
the one in me? Or must I rearm my filling station?
Can we trust otters to indicate us
(who seem us only in the evil rush), our
end never stooping to think? Oh, I was so right around you,
my sonnet birdcage, once. No, cats' tails immersed
in the frozen swamp are about all I have time for.
The daylights are so Polaroid. Yet time is often self-
centered. At least that’s how it feels to me.

I am concerned with that venison in America
But the juice is soured.
This weeping as I wanked out of control,
After breaking cross-haired whims,
Galloping backward and forward, ahead the past,
Behind the unfamiliar future,
What were we doing, or were we,
The mattress, the limber of lice, or of loves
We were measuring olives, continually?
A moon soon to be forgiven
In crossed girders of past, hip Brooklyn charcoal
In this peeping that has sized you again?