As the black wings close in on you,
their circling shadows blighting the sand,
and your limp legs buckle, far

Lowing of cattle: your voice, to the mind of Virgil,
felt mellifluous, as it does this evening
when a cloud slips off into the dark of the sky,

From a sky sand-brushed and blurring, rain.
Plants on the sill heave signs of loneliness.
The lamp glows, a pendulous jewel hung

So one day the late Bird highly fortified strolls into this posh
boite itself and down there, leaning on the bar, is Wallace
Stevens—newly arrived, old LLD tucked away, sheepskin in
wolf, flirting with the minishirted bartendress—whom he
welcomes. 

She didn't like him: long nose baits,
Voice patient yet overbearing (a voice
Meant for a world of women-as-children).
He'd expect a yielding kiss if not more.

Out of the imagination.
Out of the brooding brain.
Out of the urban nest, lined in desires scaveng'd from

It's a wave, isn't it? Not a particle,
A fresh, cool wave so why am I flushed
and not washed?
Why dirtier than before?

The good life is unbuttoned, questions
about gender just stirring after a raucous night
under the hammock. Rumor has it that trellises

The beautiful gray dog
loping across the lawn
all afternoon for the sheer

Paula did it so others in the office—
who lunch at The Olive Garden together,
don't include her—won't think she is
a loser. On her desktop, it pulsates.