Love soils at the drip of a tendon
And blank is noth­ing in the roundesphere.

H. attacks the great totems of passion,
And now we annul the whol­ly there
Until our sex­tants dark­en remarkable.

I’d like to lie in the cool grass
With my hag­gard nostrums.
It would be like fire in the crossroads;
A fuschia archaeopteryx would eat my bones.

Love soils, see how easy?
Slen­der quiet­ness, tran­sub­stan­ti­at­ing octave,
What hap­pened to your velocity
On this rainy zero?

 

[In Sun­ny Wednes­day, Wave Books, 2009]
 

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