sweet old heart it cannot/ spare even then or that/ night he/ went again by heaven she died so high or sad

If you can get some sleep/ if we want to be prepared/ if you have any questions/ about the future

A highway wants to own the landscape/ it sections prairie into neat squares/ swallows mile after mile of countryside/ to connect the dots of cities and towns/ to make sense of things

Sad storm of objects becoming things,/ the objective correlative, tired of me/ as I am of it. I embody everything it hates/ about itself. People don’t stand in for each other.

madness in her face and i/ the world that i had seen/ and when my soul shall be to see the night to be the same and/ i am all the world and the day that is the same and a day i had been

seaward to london i/ you are free of your name of god you of/ the kings and odysseus for man as/ i am dead for i was not a woman to keep the man in

The dead don’t look asleep./ They don’t fall and stay asleep./ I don’t know how that fiction began.

i have been my love of love to know/ but the world is not for/ the love of my heart/ and the wind

joyed but also shadowed. past beyond, into super-flushed realms. a Times Roman sodoku, ordinately and orbitantly solved. stump and boozlebam. or boozle. neither cukes nor thinly sliced zucchini. unless yellow and rectangular, less the yellow overlie. minus the revocable ‘t’