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While the sun stops, or
seems to, to define a term
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The West Village by then was changing; before long
the rundown brownstones at its farthest edge
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Nothing's certain. Crossing, on this longest day,
the low-tide-uncovered isthmus, scrambling up
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past parentage or gender
beyond sung vocables
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While you walk the water's edge,
turning over concepts
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a stone at dawn
cold water in the basin
16 lines, 3 comments
Lost aboard the roll of Kodac-
olor that was to have super-
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A vagueness comes over everything,
as though proving color and contour
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In memory of Father Flye, 1884-1985
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cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod
stove-warmed flatiron slid under
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Daily the cortege of crumpled
defunct cars
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Like the foghorn that's all lung,
the wind chime that's all percussion,
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An ingenuity too astonishing
to be quite fortuitous is
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Tufts, follicles, grubstake
biennial rosettes, a low-
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By night a laddered diagram
seen from the windows of this
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For whatever did it—the cider
at the Ship Inn, where the crowd
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Frame within frame, the evolving conversation
is dancelike, as though two could play
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In a year the nightingales were said to be so loud
they drowned out slumber, and peafowl strolled screaming
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In those days the oatfields’
fenced-in vats of running platinum,
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The magpie and the bowerbird, its odd
predilection unheard of by Marco Polo
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Whatever went wrong, that week, was more than weather:
a shoddy streak in the fabric of the air of London
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