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