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—

*

helpless island with sand

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