Now you would not think

The twenty three twi-night years
were a piece with me,

the three seven or so cry-life years
I sat with for several friends,

and any reframed by godly doubt
I sat on sleeping, for all but a wooden

hour where it bled down to the intensive
grass, chewed at limit and listens when:

I was the wretched whiteness
espying the baptismal white dove

I was the wisp flying black on
water as your brown wrist stood firm

I was the tempting color brand just a
shade of external city ways

I was the breed green-of-leaf covering
clung to beatle knit love

I was the clean perfidious river
emaciated in hazy staying lips

I was the coronet shape hatched flat
blowing glass returns from sand

(Now you would not think)
I was the Minnesota feline sound

and Yes, our Yankees win

between an experience
and its expression, the
pink dark tonsil replicates

after a hardening poem
scaffolding, tatters of
aphorism, off-plastic cement

presume gold wrung, up-
raided, appraised, woven
evil tongue to an evil eye

Fauvist read! esconced in a
kennel of statement, once
of simultaneity by abeyance

Loss verbalizing amidst Gar-
gantuas, and arid plateaus,
the Egyptian coda; witticism

smoked upon blue tenement
cedes a censured pod for
cackling falsity mourned

“call it rest, call
it flight, name it freight
(I name it night)”

and Yes, our Yankees win

The Silent Lord

The silent Lord is the only Lord
of voice when carried by voice

The silent Lord is the only Lord
of curse when carried by curse

The silent Lord is the only Lord
of space when carried by space

The silent Lord is the only Lord
of force when carried by force

The silent Lord is the only Lord
of race when carried by race

The silent Lord is the only Lord
of fasting when carried by fasting

The silent Lord is the only Lord
of beast when carried by Beast

The silent Lord is the only Lord
of priest when carried by priest

The silent Lord is the only Lord
of least when carried by least