after Robert Creeley 

Bitten night spilling sharps.
Lowing clouds eye 

the Pinelawns of dead
influences to me. 

I’ll never live in a house 
with a woman who writes 

under an uneasingly
settling sun. Contrapuntal 

outruns cannons.
Darkness thousand 

rounds us to bed. Love
for one all my rest. 

My mind too
a mangle is.