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Dave Bonta
the river is too much
to be governed by art or order
it riots
sits
seems easy
unsettled as a crow
in plague time
where I fish
where the fish course and eat
we fall into greater order
into a music
lay long
talking about order
a rose collecting
an alphabet
night perfected
at night
The contrivance
of the door—square
and blind—and behind
the door the air
of office or lodgings
take a view of desire
and turn it into order,
which is so bitter
a house.
I make nothing
but order, get things
ready against the ivy,
a grave jealous of the kitchen.
I was so satisfied, I wept.
Give me a good
reason for being.
the rich fear too great a liberty
hands singing in the fields
without calling God
to make a new ground
without the price of order
bound up in a book
my hands all morning meet
to put things in order
grow fat with content
and love a falling out
like the lord and lady
of a nothing little town
I tell my mind
to the barber,
put things in order
to go away.
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.