where does this all end? what is
the vanishing of matter, for my
flushed boys are muscular, the
weight of being born into exile
is lifted, demonstrating their fine
talent for comedy — stroke, that
square — oh, 56 x 56 and this
mud draws on the stone over
the chilly dale so you can watch
me watch uplifted snow bronze
the sky, with no Florida, it's
strawberry season — snoozing
schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
gray the cloud-like oaks they
sit with their wives all day in
the hot sun, away, my songs!
away must we go! too high
on this surface, guarding the
edge, oh you builders, and half-
starved foxes shake and paw...
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