It had to be some poet from Brazil
not one of the greatest, more likely to make a fool of himself
shuffling around somewhere in your vicinity or aspiring to dwell there

Two sharp eminences with a valley between
Through which the erratic witness of a loosened tongue
Flows to the sea: Mount M__________. Mark it well.

All bubbles travelling

In tubes, and being lights:  up down and around
 They were:  blue,  red and every man uncaught

Too much of a subject can interfere,
Be a drag, so subvert the procedure to which it refers
That the wisest course is to visit it just for fun,

Because dusk comes in not long
after 5 o’clock in Chelsea
and lamps come to life, a gold

“Now, I must tell you of our grandeur,”
she’d written. “We are going to have
a Turkey!!! carpet in the dining room . . .

But I kept going. Went
a long way without stopping.
Left the dogs, my friends, behind.

The scenes that were on the inside of his ribs,
when he willed them outward, they appeared,
tattooed, in front, behind, strips of pictures

Moonset at sunrise, the mind
dividing between them. The teeth
of the young sun sink through the breast of the cloud.

Each year the monuments grew larger.
The citizens demanded this.
As their lives got worse they wanted