81.
so you have to pull the sound of
words apart
to guess the moonlight through
you’re riding on a ram up Mount
Erigal
the three moons of folklore roll up
beside you
slower than gravity, the earth cries
resist me if you dare, outmoded
primate
mere folk, graverobbers, oilsuckers
foible-witted blank-hearted
market-minded
lip-serve liturgists flower-fondlers
bird-handlers
cow-killers ocean-sievers
word-wasters
swooning philosophers, heartbreakers,
men.
82.
Picus four woodpeckers next door
pileated fledglings
no’j day of the woodpecker probe for knowledge be a girl
the things the weather tells us
Marx for breakfast Aquinas for high
tea sleep fasting
nothing matters but matter doesn’t
know it
materials seem as if there were some
other
language told me to be silent in so
many words
read this as commentary on Book VIII of the Aeneid
upriver journey into your own country
never seen before
your new arrival in yourself sunglare
on windshield
I have something to tell you you have
to tell me what it is
space between self and other shaped
by two dreams.
