The golden person curled up on my doormat.
Using her mink coat as a blanket,
Blondly asleep, a smile on her face, was my houseguest

Not every kind of water will do
to make the pool under the rock face
that afterward will be clear forever

Belle. As a boy of eight he thought of a bell,
something that rang, like the little crystal bell
on the antique table beside the bed that Mother

Gleaming in Monday evening candlelight.
Glass and plate and conversation and good
Fortune then unacknowledged even by

The night refills itself.
Limestone drops to the sea
that varies blue all day

The world I see looks to me like a game of children.
Strange performances and plays go on night and day.
King Solomon’s throne is not a big thing to me.

He speaks to me so that my whole
         drift gathers to his verse:
the page like a gravestone, his terse

Even Atalanta’s tongue was turned eventually.
Parting the high raceway grasses
she bent down for that last apple,

In first grade I was positive there were
furry creatures called tisathees.
Every morning we intoned, “My country

How do you find yourself in literature?
All blue-eyed, drinking from green bottles.
Do you think I’ve done the sky right?