THAT THERE (cut)

be dogs sleeping beside the bushes, sleeping blown through
like clothes I have stepped out to see. That bushes
be blown against the white houses up the street, and things
houses look like rising around courts and schools.

Up here, glimmers
skirting the lampposts and rolls of worn curb; a mouse skittering
and gone too. I am not even disturbing it.

This, in my hand, is a

Sweeping it through the aisles, between street
and house, where go the black and blurred scraps of things flipping
through the nostril of night,




with the light how it is, pressed, and the clouds pressed up like hands.

untitled

It is lonely in the desk, nothing. You read a little and look things
up, push on the sparkling garment whose sleeves are this crisp.
One begins, depending, and it shines out of my eyes when
we meet. The thing is to do. There's jelly around books
and staplers when you place them in a box, callers light
the impressive phone, particularly at five or six when the
traffic atangles.