Middle of the month, dear room, a swing
past glad, this bouquet, the rose held
glasses on my head	because I can't
see anything	the years

upon the breast, payment for, of, the sea
they say. The train. The ticket. The prisoner
so indifferent	to me
and my whining	tight socks

swam for miles, and the storm, before he drowned.
Expect what brought winter, the triangular.
and enough blood	to send forward
into the next		colonization

What did he do so damned heavy, so wrong?
The table snows, and hungry, his book
of garden vegetables	and daily
prayers	to hold my job

slaying deer for gold, this century.
I had no idea we'd go there.
bagging groceries	and a movie
on television		the versions

A word for this age: something to forget.
Modernity answers its calls. Regret
of women	scrolling
across the screen	just like the river

made from pure electricity, beauties
left in the office for the nonce, a voice
in the sermon	before the spaghetti
and fried chicken	I will sleep

to eat or stare at antique paint, duties
of bets, almost every lunch hour, a choice
we will all	sleep
and the river		will glitter

in Algonquin meaning "Starry Heaven."
His soul says no, it's true.
and continues	to carve an "S"
into		the forest

His heart says spring, though the ledger
from his meditation, the almanac
this too	is what you asked for
not a narrative	or monologue

from the jewel weed: a man begins to lumber
beds; the season is willing. The pheasant
discussing	with empty space
the manner	of your next

painting. Make a wish upon the number.
The small French impressionist, ever-present
battering the microscope	so you walk
the sandy retriever	past the library

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