It nudges you from your shallow sleep,
it whispers love-mockeries.

Beyond our seed-littered pond a small forest of bamboo grows wild.
Hear the wind-rustling like shaken paper? Bamboo.

Numbskull, inject
At first there seems a placid lake
      on which

Ah well, I walk out into the road all fancied up.
I must admit I feel fine. But, you see,
A statement of this sort is misleading.

I have killed the sentinel.
He was my brother
And was duly grateful.

I mime my own story,
the body describes itself.

That summer the sand rusted,
The twigs cracked more easily. A worker was sent for
To carry away broken pipes and in their place put

In the basin where the brain was
The twelve paleontologists
Assemble around the banquet table.

The smashed curb affirms
That there can be no substitute for poetry.

My voice carries further, almost
All the way to the face, I go
But not forth, or I went suspended