​I do not see the
Underlying reason that
She threw you out. It
Seems to me unreasoning.
The chill air seeped beneath my
Skin and skittered on my hands.

​
Together, we, you,
Us, the muddy road is splotched,
Tire-tracks sink into
Puddles, emerge, metallic,
Reflecting a setting sun.

​Write about every
Thing but the half-moon sinking
Or so it seems; then
Turning down the bedsheet, cry
Or contemplate, and then sleep.

​On the edge of town,
Waste. We can escape it to
The fragrant trees or
Return to the clotted town
With its smells of families.

​When the rain is glinting on the stones
Men are absent from the gleaming night,
Wind that winds its unobstructed course
Twinned with damp that chills the sleeping boy

That wakes him from his dream, that licks the panes,
That plays a plume of steam, a misty scroll,
A scarf, across the hilly ridge, and in its sleepy tail
Wraps up the town and plaits a bridge with misty pylons

To ride into the dawn. The moon is panicked, lost
Behind the thickset clouds whose grayness carries frost,
All motion seems to want to cease, all movement to decline,
To sink beneath an airy quilt, maroon as drifting wine.

​There can be no more than getting born today
What else is there what work is there at play
Tremendous bundles of rock trundle down the slope
Sometimes the fog stutters at two corners, to cope

Together on the street at two am, then puff, disperse,
Seep in shrouded white, stand beneath the sleep-silent terse
Burst of drift, the wordless that, the braille drizzle swarm
Surrounds each cat-eye street lamp, smudges an uncertain form,

This and only this tonight, there is no more,
Only see this gate, this fence, opal milky pore,
Misty gray, cut-cold green, meets the black-edged night,
Rolls into the valley, raises up its wings and sinks from flight. 

A poem that makes the claim that rhyme needn't be confined to the end of a line.

​I gagged, I felt
Angry, why did they
Sit there and not hear the fly

That buzzed its ceaseless dry
Wings, its own spry as it were
Cry, its own kind of song.

​When the past comes barging in,
Hopping about like a wren in the prickly bush,
Disguising itself in the arms of hirsute men,

Then the sky is red and swollen, painful to the touch,
Its secrets must be lanced, again. Drag out a chair,
Sit in the unkempt yard, become its leading citizen.