Among the poorer possibilities:
                              “Hum.”
Are you fucking crazy, Tulip?
                              Know what they would do to us?
In the garden of all that is and is
                              it is almost too much so so much
for the cattail dream and the banks  
                              where we dried like drowned children in sun
and there were finally flies remarking sadly
                              and for once remarkable fires in our mouths.

The soul and then the backsling? Happy harps,
give me no more lady, no more moth that mothers         
blackbirds on fire in the hickories and ghosts that won’t be tethered
to the (hell with) you and the high tide you rode in on.

When you were the wind
                              beating apart apples and
the sky was your eye
                  (OF)
      All things to happen
                  in a hotel bathroom
      sunlight lightly tapping
                              (SINCE)
                  I’ve been driving days
                               into night’s corral, it seems
                  only the landscape changes
                                         (NOW)

Wash my face my elm ash what’s that.
Companion a sky does to and does.

I live my fiction: mornings when nothing matters:
                  vespers and missives and desperate miles in the dusk.
The heart guns and guns.   I stumbled into being,
I might as well stumble through it.