the sky
looks hammered flat
out. are you
so helpful?
are you unearthly?
every building on the heights
reaching for the missal of the day

·     ·      ·     

poem with a bridge
poem with a chain
so-called knives
so-called sheep wagon
so-called pioneers
you get to 
                                  go to the fields
without a fence
& make 
& rake hay & asters
violent

·     ·     ·

The palace of the Sun
was radiant:
                       everything flashed.

It was always high noon:
twilight never, darkness unknown.

Few mortals endured that light,
                                                         few ever

·     ·     ·     

Sudden, all-too-gone wash ribs,
twisting yarn between your fingers.

Here, potter    much?
Much
            against the sky?    What
did you imagine     to do
                                   the pail with?

I’m talking about fake stairs

·     ·     ·     

I’m talking about fake stairs (you lived
in a house that held its     breath) waiting
           for the wind
                                   to breathe it down

    “Throw it out, it isn’t good for anything—
               it’s just      a memory.”    

You saw a dead goose here once, under this
power line.
                                 It was quite

·     ·      ·     

When I went back to the prairie I
couldn’t find the blade of grass/boot jack/swaying shack
I couldn’t even find the
Ball glass/heifer smash

It was a beautiful day to