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The Poets light but Lamps — Themselves — go out — The Wicks they stimulate If vital Light Inhere as do the Suns — Each Age a Lens Disseminating their Circumference —

For Father Bob I. By the road she hovers in heat waves, propped up on a cinderblock wall, revived by mixed house paints, fending for herself like wild mint. She is behind your shoulder, a blind spot, your city's poverty. A figure waits under a freeway ramp, gesturing as if she knows you. The fences and lots have the same dogs, peering through the chain-links, curious. While at the hospital, you see kids play another game of tag outside the emergency room doors and know how fingerprints squander their ridges and how digital minutes dry up under a glare. II. A stump is all that is left of a surveyor's point, a ponderosa pine in the foothills that started the city's perfect grid. The sidewalks of Baseline need more than a grocery bag's empty belly, plastic, a ripped-up flame standing and calling out to an old preacher like yourself. By the cameras mounted on the street lights, you wonder if they recorded the street sinking in the eyes of the woman who died on a bus bench. You pause in front of a freshly painted sign that says "Wrong Way," and see a sign within a sign, a resistance to the newest strip mall, the black lettering unevenly spaced and painted, a homespun warning to keep moving on.

It is farming in an inclement sun system like a powerless nether beast fallen amidst random stellar debris fruit changes form light then quavers across distorted mural relics the farmer then living as a clarified adder his land forms compressed his wheat suspended & flaring his unstable forms carving his soil with volcanic blue seeds

Name one revolution whose inception was unlike a fist. Factions disparate, then tucked together—coiled like a fist. Foreign policies are symbol languages—idiomatic, cryptic. In America, nothing says "We desire peace" like a fist. The heart is a one-man rave in the body's industrial district. Blooddrunk and insomniac, it pumps toward sleep like a fist. Mammogram magic revealed my lover's dense breasts. Behind each nipple I kissed, a soft knot threatened her like a fist. Our universe's yet shattered mysteries fear the astrophysicist. "Damn his galaxies-thick glasses, his mind, relentless, like a fist." "Like a glove"—the young groom exalts his wife's love, its fit. Sounds romantic. (He means sex—her love's grip like a fist.) "An unfocused punch, Kyle, risks a broken hand or wrist." So laden the psyches of men. Father, must I also think like a fist?

The  pioneers and the indians disagree about a lot of things for example, the pioneer says that when you meet a bear in the woods you should yell at him and if that doesn't work, you should fell him The indians say that you should whisper to him softly and call him by loving nicknames No one's bothered to ask the bear what he thinks

I was angry with my friend; I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I waterd it in fears, Night & morning with my tears: And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night. Till it bore an apple bright. And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine. And into my garden stole, When the night had veild the pole; In the morning glad I see; My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

April fool Bear's-foot Bog-onion Devil's-apple Dog parsley Doll's-eyes Fairy hells Flying saucers Four o'clock Gagweed Goosefoot Hare's-ear Indian beans Inkweed Jacob's-coat Lady's-thumb Lion's-beard Locoweed Monkey-fiddle Moonseed Mother-in-law Puncture-vine Naked lady Quaker-bonnets Rabbit-bush Smartweed Sneezeweed Snakegrass Stinking Willie Sundials Swallow-wort Wahoo Wart-cress Witches' thimbles Wolfsbane Wonder berry

It’s a star that looks like a poker game above the mountains of eastern Oregon. There are three men playing. They are all sheepherders. One of them has two pair, the others have nothing.

loquitur the sparrow in the Zoo

In a famous painting of a founding father and the back end of a horse it’s the horse butt that’s properly lit groomed out        smooth       an immortal peach Who can say what it means about revolution that the horse’s tail emerges as though it had no bones in it no chunky mechanics of the living And the horse is not well muscled but has been living in the rich grass swollen like a birthday balloon