Might this crane, stilled,
suggest a cat at attention,
triangular head?

Left hand like a starfish
watch it long enough, sensibly,
it may move an arm.

One cedar tree branch
bent like a worm, much older
than this argument

They call the busman
“driver”–that formality
cracks in my own throat.

Thick plaid headgear,
brown beard, thick glasses–a voice
like the end of the world.

She waves, the bus goes,
she hunches her red shoulders
sundown.

A wise gas exchange
that’s how I serve the Earth
slinging CO2.

The accordion
held by our ancient Russian
choir beneath my floor.

What else might I
be wrong about, given so much
time and passion?

The book, the record,
whichever finishes first…
at the same time.

Heater on the bus
declaiming hollow language
waiting for its fill.

In front of two lights
a hill and its calm climbing,
no sound of the motor

Washing only
the hand that’s been in the piss;
surety.

Someone stuck a stamp
on the back of Hemingway;
a sad Christmas seal?

A serious thing, death,
and also two white lights
on three white walls.

Why yes, you workmen,
give me a whistle when I’m
nude at the window

A hiss from the street
as if a snake would chitter;
no one goes anywhere.

My hand and the pen
feel charged–too bad for my mind
it’s time for bed.