The weight falls downward of its own volition
Bringing to the ground its iron embrace

So gay on your lovely head 
The hat cradles the specialty 
Of the house brand-new 

I was thinking where are we all going when we were 
Going through the snow on the ground, underbrush 
Beneath like the New England personality going 

On Sunday afternoon in Georgia I had nothing to do
So I sent myself back to Georgia underwater
In the traditional manner of the English

 Innumerable scratches on the shore
        Like an old alley shot toward the stars

All my life I had hoped someday to own
at least myself, only to find I am
Flood’s ligaments, the aureole of Mamma,

1.
Technically it was liquid asphalt:
MC, RC, or 85/100—
nothing very far removed

My uncle who got around told me they plastered
money on the pictures, and threw coins
at all the saints.

The ridge road takes the ridgespine every way
It turns. It threads the granite venebrae
And old. wind-dwarfed ponderosas that twist

Behind the chains and sawblades on the north wall of the shop, I found the packrat’s nest, his fetishes: