Summer is never

Just where my long road started out, it ends.
I stand alone and see my childhood town 
Calling its kids and saying goodnight to friends. 

Our mittened hands upon the snow-capped stone,
we stood and watched what once was river zag
a black and crazy trickle through the ice.

I

He threw his bat down third and seized the pen:
“My words will make the ages better men!”

Today's subject is an architecture of cards,
laminate, cool, telling no fortunes. It's
the world reduced to a series of integers
plus a face or two, a synthetic temple

You can be a mother who knows a god,
And you can ask him for magic armor,
A shield the width of Saturn’s widest rings,

If, in depicting the angels, I cannot
avoid something, as well, of what
the river that day cast before me,
the musculature of the rowers’ arms,

The moods of the cantaloupe king are moods

Of the melon king in green variations.

Both entered the orange parlor like nations

It’s late. History promises you a kiss
When she comes to bed. So you say good night.
You’re tired and can’t keep your eyes open,

At night, he ordered his own sun, which was
Supposedly arriving soon, they said