Noise is relative, too, like space
and time. For fish, who live packed
in water, the massive crash of a leaf

My head emerging from this paper box—
not heavy but sufficiently opaque
and put there up across my balding pate

Everyone has advice, lots of suggestions,
Some bring him plastic bowls, tin cans,
Old buckets; someone with half a degree

No definition tells you rooms exist:
touch them too hard, too long, and like mimosa
they close against a stem so sightless green

Our ancient lives enhanced their lively wit 
We hissed the cave shut with an angry spyt 
The hills will stagger down the mountain’s rind.

He thinks of iced tea, free in the South
after one glass (he would drink a gallon).
Tea iced was introduced in Chicago

 That which rings and spins, that which is broken
and between, lingers behind the curtain. We were
a family business: My father, top and tails, sawing

A slender plank above a waterhole,
planted on end to meet my wants,
I hear its whisper in the stock.

Eastern Sea, 100 fathoms,
green sands, pebbles,
broken shells.

Jesus wrote in the sand.
I write in red notebooks. . . .

After grace and after rain,