I miss the misery. I knew I would, even as I leaped
away from my brother to the tribal drumming
of my heart: Britain was more ancient then, the stones

whose eyes are a fair, spiky green
I only see on my hands
and knees at spring's initial offerings, how

Company

I've lost my stately others and now there is me with neck
Erect and solemn, tightened face. Sometimes I feel they are
Peering out from behind white curtains, clutching with long

Drive-by birth—this mother snares a cab.
Shoots up, delivers, leaves her baggage
Backseat to the world—boy born, tab

come in every size and shape,
wiry and weighty,
jogging and mincing, plodding and sprinting,

In Rogier van der Weyden's Annunciation
The Holy Ghost enters the Virgin's chamber
As a dove gliding on a beam of light—

Cast them my way,
Groundless and true.

Eternal both.

I tire as I carve the passage
Til the wind peeks out from underneath.
Yes, I guess this is clean now.

On her dress she wears her body. —Blaise Cendras 

No stranger to the faith of eyes
asleep under the surgeon's lancet,
to time gambled with every try