As Golden Gate Park lies sunken in sea fog
concealing in heaps of sodden brown leaves
beer cans, condoms, a soccer ball,

Shades of brown: rust of the dirt road in
and the gullies deepening to umber,
the taupe of winter grass along the shoulder,

On the 17th day, Noah's wife went to the window
and saw only water and knew the world was lost.

On the 20th day, Noah's wife went to the window

Cast out from work's absorbing converse
         I watch as men and women
         hurry toward home, each other,

Irretrievably girl in other words
      ashamed pear-shaped earnest canary
has just about licked up her past

After the curistes are all evacuated, from my balcony.
I watch the hotel next door bum down.

Water. Man. The fire burns all night.

First my books grew stiff
brass clasps like the books monks read.

A hush enshrouded them. They were

The last toddler's howls evanesce like ash
on a breeze, the parking lot empties of cars.
A purple shock of cotton candy rots

At the Crux

     Grieving takes its lyric turns,
         anciently,
            sometimes en pointe.

as was proven 
when they entered the house 
in which the priest was,