Scrub and stone, show me
a passage through to set me free

to leave it empty on the shores of time,
and shining, will mean to live and write

I have implied
a garden. It is wish-
fulfillment.

Cockney tears, red, white
and blue tears, touching-
only-to-his-mother-tears.

It is time that the stone let itself break into flower,
that the unresting heart beat.

Into the distance, the stacked-up whiteness
and beyond, endless,
the sleightrace of the lost.

Two thousand pounds of Grade A carne vaporize
the heat. He has the biggest pecker in the pool

And all around the cadaver stood a living halo of fifteen
      quail

Confused bear cocked back on a haunch,
artist’s blundering arms frozen toward embrace 

who glimpses
the dead without shuddering?