Sounds that came into the world in my lifetime        
already sound old-fangled: dial-up modems,
the implosion of a television tube 

 From the sky to the heavens’ heavens                                
 From the heavens’ heavens to the darkness on high                
     From the darkness on high to the upper dwelling       

        Swept Valley

Which sounds like something the wind
        would do:        

The door had a double lock, 
and the joke was on me. 
You might call it protection 

I wanted sky. That was my ambition. And now I’m being tugged 
Up a small steel mountain,

A burly chain beneath the car hauling my weight 

Curmudgeon
pigeon,
iridescence

The merchant republics are done
as is the nun
who forbade us aged five to say

That man over there
looking sidelong
as you sidelong

Sifu John has left the dojo
and struck out on his own.
No more shit from Master Jong,

I made this up from nothing.
It’s not myself I sing,
or love, or anything