Chasing
after Robert Creeley
Bitten night spilling sharps.
Lowing clouds eye
the Pinelawns of dead
influences to me.
I’ll never live in a house
with a woman who writes
under an uneasingly
settling sun. Contrapuntal
outruns cannons.
Darkness thousand
rounds us to bed. Love
for one all my rest.
My mind too
a mangle is.
