4/15/06

in this age of iron there

is quite little

that cannot be found true

in gazing just so

at a motel fan

or painting sawdust from a tree

into a person

there are unseen parts

around us

panicked grass

red light rockwells

great wars, yeats, tree frogs

you

with all your Spanish,

I beg you not go through with this

we cannot stand more
of these people

unless the unwashed clothes

the bookshelves lined with shotguns

somehow beg the oceans to deluge us with
angels

who listen