Fred,
I don’t know what to do.
About me and you and the dream
which knocks and knocks at me, now has

So the hip rises, oh so slightly, in its golden socket
and music continues despite the dawn

The lion threw his head back and sang two notes like a veery

The storms that make it into poems most often
leave something like disaster in their wake:
the wine-glass elms in pieces on the lawn,

The forest comes down at night. She waits until the last tram has left, then sets off. She meets the drunks—with eyes half-shut they pass through her, they stumble but don’t curse. The forest walks steadily on. 

That day in winter: the rows
of shabby cages, stacked
like death-camp bunk beds,
in which tiger kittens gamboled,

It wasn’t as deep as I expected,
your grave, next to the grandmother who died

The fox
is so quiet—
he moves like a red rain—

God, but one wearies of flipping them,
of turning them, or punching or,
with certain rheostatted switches, sliding them.

The Eskimos were ravaging Peru.
Grandfather fought the Hittites.
Mother sold firecrackers to the Bedouins.

I knelt down
  at the edge of the water,
     and if the white birds standing