Rather I would take the wary root with ice
before the tiresome sunrise & these three machines full.
As I kept matching these corners up
with no time for poems, or to make nice
with my superiors, who see me often in a lull
as I fold & fold. Last wisps of steam from my cup
I’m throaty without. I was unaware of last month’s bout
with sores. I drove one incredibly long mountain road & down.
I slept beneath all possible insects.
I threw my arms out against the Hudson to shout,
“Lookitall dem clouds!” only to hear no sound.
But a rotted castle & miles of oxygen on which to reflect
Now I’m getting to the heart of it, a last check.
Spooking myself thoroughly driving through the back streets
of Princeton, tree mailbox tree
from the humid Republican paradise. The artificial sanctuary
of Black Rock, that still lingers of my love, in her corner,
with the memory of drawn horses.
