It’s late, and for once
your radio turns on by itself,
with a stereo broadcast

Do not rush.
Sudden sinkings have been rare,
though, eventually, the vessel does.

When Lady Venus takes her leisure 
A young man with a feathered cap 
Is sometimes told to sit beside her 

You are not the first man to have the shakes, 
the wheels, the horrors, to wear the scarlet 
snowshoe, nor yet the invincible harlot 

So huge is God’s despair
In the wild cactus plain
I heard Him weeping there

But never fall from fealty to light.
You said, Melville? Now, by God, sir, why not?
The pall is comfortable enough; as soon rot

To present an offering. Or, the offering itself.
        A drink of water. A glass held up: an honor, a toast.

Quiet, my tiny violins, salve
the poor chests beaten bruise-grey with grief.

More than leaves, dust and wind
envelop the football game in the meadow.
It is an enormous, ill-defined ball of Artie tumbleweed

It is like drowning,
The water of the eyes spills back into the head
It coats the skull like honey