What the sun does to a flower,
Leaching its all-precious

We were having a picnic by the river.
We watched it land, their glistening ship
Fat as a Buick. The aliens were suntanned

By silence he meant it's bad enough
To squander words on paper. Don't waste them.
Along with your breath, on air. By exile

Nakedness isn’t guilty,
But it’s never unaware. At night
The white blossoms go on

In all honesty, saying this
As if reaching out to hold your hand
And attest to a truth, my tongue

The cat run over and killed in the street
Came back to life and stood on its feet:

During his stay, he catches glimpses of the TV’s
glare, a black-and-white dim series

The morning new cement is laid—at last! —
along the perimeter of Penn’s remodeled highrise
(although the old had spalled, cracked and heaved

Why are we tempted (and why do I ally
myself with “we” when I can only mean
myself with certainty … while certainty

At the bay’s edge and day’s end, we comb
the shore for beach glass, clouded grains
of clarity among the ground-down,