I keep on drying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,

You drink a bitter draught.
I sip the tears your eyes fight to
A cup of lees, of henbane steeped
Your breast is hot,
Your anger black and cold,

FOR DAVID P—B
The eye follows, the land
Slips upward, creases down, forms
The gentle buttocks of a young
Giant. In the nestle,

When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the stre
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always

I’ve got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry

Curtains forcing their will
against the wind,
children sleep,
exchanging dreams with
seraphim. The city

Shadows on the wall
Noises down the hall
Life doesn’t frighten me at all
Bad dogs barking loud
Big ghosts in a cloud

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since depart
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried token
Of their sojourn here

A last love,
proper in conclusion,
should snip the wings
forbidding further flight.
But I, now,

There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win