now

now its time to eat bread widow window
as we three sat personed as any god
willing the wind and gilded shadows sated
late against altars and bright eyed fowls
where foxes stood and kids brayed
some bad poem to harry the day along
of forts and ravens or hillside pools
and other platitudes that legalize
your contempt for booing and natural
sockets wearing the night away its
called freeing verse that equals its weight in prose
forgetting what to say except a sonnet
keeps it like your only begotten fiddle
a simile of an eye gazing over a hill
swarming the earth
with your bodies and hands


O sometime she is there
standing in the breeze