All the rain’s mallets softened among the knit river
in the ceiling. It was an octagon, white as the sky’s drumkit.
To delight in the hour of a storm’s slow drag,
each cone floating as cherry vapor morning,
is the way we fulfill our turning days.
Have you been, been there, to the riverside,
where a rooster is blue in the tunnel of labor?
And roll for the man, the married woman glows,
their home heightening to baroque fine vision.
The lamp turns around, around its map, pale as a fountain.
I’m on the mountain calling for you, cool weather we’re having,
as mud and clay, a lake making a dome for a shimmying bed.
With my line, with my line, and a full glass of water,
I put the suitcase on the road as the music began:
Play the piano a piece for me a little piece.
Love—communicant for ghost-eyed night—
make me new as my shell yields inimitably, a bag of nova light.