Like a die that is only real every sixth throw
a bump under the century conceals my own child
who greets me from its face
a green grammar blooms in the snow
debonair in its whirl of reproduced
images so nearly oneself
this dash is formal fiat not formal activity
movement behind the thin curtain
a car door closing at three a.m.
*
after school at the gas station
muggery of nonsense night
is very pleasant and all year run
thick in summer a shock of wheat
it doesn’t matter that you
were a gigantic child
back in the city with bigger whiskers
the lathe and plaster, always prepared
born and raised, gone away and come back—
*
gladden this final sound
may lead others to follow
where they can’t go
back at the pasture
the police in my yard
*
you see them sometimes displeasing by highway
dripping ink into the grass
cinderblock hennaed with sayings
occluded, the regent turning away
indelicate alleys with cracked destination
door and gate, kicked mailbox, rattled fence
in nothing’s costume
each morning someone’s difficult
kiss the lake by surprise on either side
*
a figure swimming inside the waves
have to stay quiet to keep him singing
have to sing to keep him still
*
sleep grunts of stomach and throat
unarmed and heavily defended
high tide outside the oyster shed
footing and collapse here I saw
an image or an act, one or the other
itinerant in the reticulated dawn