Prognosticating For Bob Dylan, Beacon Theatre, New York City

A week—today—
I quilt my lowdown
ways,
and me my sundown
to smear. (on)

A week—today—
Isis knocks my
way,
and me my skin
to wear. (out)

A week—today—
Queen Jane’s approximate
way,
and me my call
to clear. (out)

A week—today—
Ramona swells
her way,
and me my Deuteronomy
to bear. (out)

A week—today—
Bob slips
his stay,
and me my dove
to hare. (out)

Marching

Eighteen days these little

poems music selections comprise

to fail to comprise

maybe when if and only if ever:

the bare infinitive a

refined embrace

These Ways

These ways of corralling are
mysterious. These ways of corralling
the furious—

bread and love and slogans to apprehend,
lights and thunder and
pictures that

won’t pretend,

cards and shading and time
eclipsed at bend,

these are the ways (wow) the corralling
never ends…

These are the ways
corralling never ends—laughing and

hiding and saying let’s defend,
praying and washing and taking to intend,

walking in a moon when your
heart is on the mend—

these ways of corralling
the curious.

These ways of corralling
are serious.