Wherefore the cutworm, that consumeth not what he
   destroys,
that sunders below the leaf, that razes at the spindle,

Because silence is unguarded and truth
Has an odd way of putting his snout
In at times like this I teach the children

1956: She is the girl with the biggest
breasts in Sloan, Iowa. She will take
a backseat to no one. He is young

On the morning that lasts forever
the neighbors are playing a tape of Tibetan
monks again, somewhere between groaning

the biggest bore in town
arrives at my party
as if he were invited

at Delphi. Some judgment! Now I've got osteonecrosis,

talk about the dead speaking through us.
The fountainhead cut off the flow to the corpus,

Can't move can't speak can't think to wonder
why that's so. Song says I still
believe, can't think of what, who

He winds through the party like wind, one of the just
who live alone in black and white, bewildered

by the eden of his body. (You, you talk like winter
rain.) He’s the meaning of almost-morning walking home

Midsummer with other men's lovers, fumbles
on a living room couch, significance asleep
upstairs: I come through the door, I come

They are my parents.
Both are walking toward me,
she on the left with a mud caked
wooden box in her hand propped