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I want something warm that won’t feel shame lying over me.

I make peas and argue with a wall. Something gets stuck like that.

Toe over toe we went, arms held out like tightrope walkers.

I walk across the fields with only a few young cows for company.

Anchored off Biscayne Bay my father’s wooden skiff swings easy.

He had seduced them with his sincerity for truth-seeking.

Insomnia! There is a sickly romance to the affliction—initially.

Your jumps are numbered. It is better to be a bird without altitude.

These old guitar players were the last pure thing this country produced.

I’ll leave a trail of crumbs as I descend into god knows where.

Music that tells of how things stand in the troubled world you now have.

Nothing stills, nothing stops. The world is still as it was before.

It’s cruel to watch my edges crystallize and reflect light.

That what I call my Self is asleep, and has dreamed up these lilacs.

You could take your pick from an array of rebellions to consider.

Relief workers tore swaths of insulation from the rafters of the house.

I light fires in the dark wake of space where you have tarried. Or died.

The birds have all flown to Mars for water and Crisco and red.

I hand in my form. I wonder if the doctor with the needles will laugh at me.

He pretended he was in his boat, his cellmate’s flushing, Arctic Ocean.

Later in the pale of dawn your hair brushed across my forearm.

Not long after Christmas, the smoke really hit Melbourne.

I have many dreams, I say. In my dreams I am better than myself.

He’s gonna change the way we farm around here. Make it more like India.

The one who sold me a smuggled gun sold me smuggled bullets.

Loss. That word echoed in my ears as my eyes ranged around the garden.

In the garden this morning, I thought for a moment I saw T’ao Ch’ien.

The architect is twice my age and owns an ivy-covered house.

Eight years, and she was ready to call it quits. They were both ready.

The danger was my own carelessness, and now I was waist deep in it.