In the good old days mutations appeared everywhere, 
and every second baby was a monster.  
I wish I could have lived then, neighbor 

The sky is desert blue,
Like the pool. Secluded.
No swimmers here. No smog—

And that you hold the same one hawk each day I pass through my field
                                                                                       up. And that it
                                                                                       may choose its

End of autumn. Deep fog. There are chains in it, and sounds of
                                                     hinges. No that was
                                                     birds. A bird and a

Sound rises. That is a law. I live in this law. I do not
                                                     want to make anything
                                                     that rises. These words

The face is featureless, 
As though bound in tight gauze, 
And therefore presents a mien 

This is not the Roman Campagna.
Arcadian shepherds are absent.
The myths here are Icelandic sagas

I am straddling Marini’s horse
using the horseman’s cock as my handle
galloping in place until it comes off in my hand.

Of the vastness of clouds
We knew nothing;
We slept in houses underground.

It rises from childhood
like a humpback whale, water
streaming down the grill,