To bring the night sky to life, strike a wrong note from time to time.
As the Rialto burned I stood across the street in front of the dry goods store
The light, nearly unreal scent of the Mediterranean, crowds on the streets at midnight—
As you dress, early mist reflects moonlight and silence between the winter hills
For the heron that rousts the swamp, thank you. And for spiders shocked into gradual sleep.
I am not old but old enough to believe I know what Jimmy Stevens wants when he invites my sister into his Model-A. And because
Business never slows for the air’s ubiquitous morticians, their spiraling so effortless we might admit its beauty, if we didn’t know how eagerly, in those ridiculous black boas,
The stones are grown over with moss, canker-eaten, illegible even to the sun
