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Dave Bonta
head combed by my girl
to whom I am an ape
I rain down wool
in the wool of the river
I should be profuse
journey anywhere at home
appear duskish
all is one in fog
a fine wool
the grove like a riff
half-way to the ear
in wool
the down
in timber
time
in a will
a testament
We walk till weary, all in wool,
to dinner after dinner,
and in the evening go see the ship
sunk in the clear afternoon,
money for money
and self for escaped self.
Sick of the town-
talk, I hear
nothing hard,
my wits never
overtaken by
a fuddle of wool.
Waters deaf as the land
are given to wool—
overtaken by the Dutch
and built upon.
The greatest shower of rain
made a new hat.
smell of wet wools
bears disguised as overcoats-