The bodies line this lake of suicides.
I visit the locked shed
Where lovers carve their summer oaths. Inside

Don’t forget that while my legs
were clamped around the mule’s
ribs climbing a defunct

My less erotic god condemned
my taste for girls less classical
than you, the kind that can’t resist

It should be entered from the old quarter
At its center, the easiest part to get lost in.
—It happened to many of us here, as children:

I don’t know what to say to you
and have called you names—mutilator of souls, 
warden of dust, evocateur— that only placed me

Baseball is the purest sport, meaning
ballparks out in the heartland, mixing
fork balls and slurves, tapping

Knowing that Penn had dabbled, periodically,
in paints, noting the modest watercolor
of his young, late wife, above the files,

They return in desirable colors of the season,
whether casually or stupidly, to simplify the garden
of its sweetest shoots and tips, though I have set out

will mark the completion,at last,
of nearly ten years’ design.
Soon to rise on a peak in the Chilean desert,

Right on schedule, one century behind 
The little bird on William Wordsworth’s cuckoo clock 
Emerged from Time Itself, a home, to cuckoo.