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In sunless air, under pines Green to the point of blackness, some Founding father set these lobed, warped stones To loom in the leaf-filtered gloom Black as the charred knuckle-bones Of a giant or extinct Animal, come from another Age,…

The groundhog on the mountain did not run But fatly scuttled into the splayed fern And faced me, back to a ledge of dirt, to rattle Her sallow rodent teeth like castanets Against my leaning down, would not exchange For…

Meadows of gold dust. The silver Currents of the Connecticut fan And meander in bland pleatings under River-verge farms where rye-heads whiten. All’s polished to a dull luster In the sulfurous noon. We move With the languor of idols below…

Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother. The insects are scant, skinny. In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither.Mornings dissipate in somnolence. The sun brightens tardily Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us. he fen sickens. Frost drops even the…

Grub-white mulberries redden among leaves. I’ll go out and sit in white like they do, Doing nothing. July’s juice rounds their nubs. This park is fleshed with idiot petals. White catalpa flowers tower, topple, Cast a round white shadow in…

I came before the water —- Colorists came to get the Good of the Cape light that scours Sand grit to sided crystal And buffs and sleeks the blunt hulls Of the three fishing smacks beached On the bank of…

It is no moon to drown in:A full moon, river lapsingBlack beneath bland mirror-sheen, The blue water-mists droppingScrim after scrim like fishnetsThough fishermen are sleeping, The massive castle turretsDoubling themselves in a glassAll stillness. Yet these shapes float Up toward…

Old man, you surface seldom. Then you come in with the tide’s coming When seas wash cold, foam- Capped: white hair, white beard, far-flung, A dragnet, rising, falling, as waves Crest and trough. Miles long Extend the radial sheaves Of…

To his house the bodiless Come to barter endlessly Vision, wisdom, for bodies Palpable as his, and weighty.Hands moving move priestlier Than priest’s hands, invoke no vain Images of light and air But sure stations in bronze, wood, stone.Obdurate, in…

Enter the chilly no-man’s land of about Five o’clock in the morning, the no-color void Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot Of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar conundrums Which seemed, when dreamed, to mean so profoundly much,…