Vines
Infinite milestone and the threads of a spiderweb once used
for money; twin shiploads of north wind; etymologies
of rain and fog. Oh, hard-surfaced inhabitant, she took the
beer out with her, which was later your sweat. In a way
the vines acquired a late bus ride home lost in an armadillo
high, in a make believe patched sail. Rope stretches over water
in the apartment of your memory, and the old one replies with oak,
pine and sycamore. The candle-stained road scraper, its cargo hold
of modern shells, comes to the end of a short stretch of pavement,
the end of a whistle drawn to its last halt, its last two-cylinder
monoplane parked in the yard. It’s what mistakenly gets put on the
page wind dampens with its criticism, with its nowhere to live,
nowhere to even shake a hand. Work withdraws to its repair, its
shelf of oyster shells reminiscent of red tile roofs. Tomorrow,
morning will place in your previous letter the shared ends of a
saddle and flashlight.
Innumerable Stumble 