I see New Englandly, and the miles gauged in the end are my own
Thousand footsteps measured warily around the sinking neck
Of my father’s hill beneath my crisp worn dress that hangs,

I still liked anyothertime,
anyotherplace. which means most
of my life, but it was now,

I read about their hive in a beekeeping book,
the 1916 fire near a lumber pile where
they fanned their wings furiously,

Came to me—
         Who?
She.

Snow is irrational
and the rare song above the snow insane.

Every tree is a personality:

Fred,
I don’t know what to do.
About me and you and the dream
which knocks and knocks at me, now has

But beautiful is the dog lost,
once headed east, then later

in the dark south. But
beautiful is the cold

All day I measure noses.
People are brought before me.
My brass calipers never lie.

Refugees flee their homes. Exiles
move back in, thirty-year echoes
of mortar shells rattling windows.

A naked woman rides a naked man
and vamps, and moans, and both pretend to mount
the summit of desire, although in these