In my front yard live three crepe myrtles, crying trees 
We once called them, not the shadiest but soothing
During a break from work in the heat, their cool sweat

Those piers like huge stone feet
Stand in the ebb.
                   Twice a day

Burg, boro, ville, and wood, 
I hate those tiny towns, 
Their obligations. If I needed

The people all crowded in the hall.
They wondered what the poet would look like
(none of them had ever seen the poet before).

His mind is a silent suburb at dusk
the moment just before
streetlights flicker on,

Moving across the light, on agitated hips,
She hurries away breadcrusts and grapestones 
And glances in mid-talk, as if from fear,

As I walk down NYC I wonder into the ground
Glee a short road across my face
To a sparrow observing from the cool agenda

On this day, anno 1966
The thin Scandinavian girl whose fine-nosed
                      white collie sniffs along the shaded walk.

Life is beautiful.             However
The only truly human, American expressions
                           of its staggering rich moments

United at first
ham and cheese fall apart and slip 
             through my trembling hands