To become lost amid underperforming texts
the stranger won't answer. By which time
it was nosebleed territory anyway. The geese
had put away their young, then fled; all that remained
to be determined was local angst, over which who cares what
by sitters in a landscape, I say: how is this remote?
Yellow wine will rinse it all away, and how many of us
are there? Is it my imagination or must one foregather
to bring stuff in?
Long before that, the tocsin
had sounded in the autumn dell, Toxins were released.
One's by-now crystallized antipathy to daring new
solutions swamped local perennial borders.
Because at least getting too serious had reputable
antecedents. Being in the way didn't matter,
nor should it, yet who knows what embarrassments can leak
this way, foreground moony entertainments? Just a clench
suffices when their guard is up. The horse pilots,
sleeping rough in their thousands,
announced commodious outcomes contradicting too-prompt
displays of local affection. The broad petals of language
are stiff and may get very bad.
They make it very bad
in our language tutoring.
Possibly you have noticed, too,
that so few people seem to have
heard the good news about them-
selves. They want refreshment but
ask, 'Give me the biggest red ya
got', and this aspiration for
punishment is but a consequence
of deprivation, a means of sub-
stantiating to themselves that
they can take it and respect it.
You see it everywhere, if not in
every thing.
In growth there is a center that
opens as balanced wine, unfold-
ing congruently, responsively,
gracefully, authentically, and
lastingly. Which came first, the
principle or the fact? Taste is
an expression of the human trait
of memory. We can watch expertise
reviving as a birthright, across
Quick Question
New Poems
Far Harbor
op. cit.
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