You might come here Sunday on a whim.
Say your life broke down. The last good kiss
you had was years ago. You walk these streets
laid out by the insane, past hotels
Now the summer perch flips twice and glides
a lateral fathom at the first cold rain,
the surface near to silver from a frosty hill.
Along the weed and grain of log he slides his tail.
I can't ridge it back again from char.
Not one board left. Only ash a cat explores
and shattered glass smoked black and strung
about from the explosion I believe
for Sydney Pettit
The lines are keen against today's bad sky
about to rain. We're white and understand
for Hank and Nancy
Seven thousand acres of grass have faded yellow
from his cough. These limp days, his anger,