.....

Light-pockets on the riversides,
     wreathed in the wreckage of trees,
      following a murmur into amplified darkness
     as a blonde telephone nullifies the calm


 bereft of formlessness, the hand, ticking, the hand waiting
  in thrall to unaided time the whole body, ticking, the whole body waiting
                     paleo eyes naked on the underside of life
   notched spine dragging a season of loose fur
                   to the boundaries of experience where the wolf cannot move


                            the seeking that is wave-like
                         a current whose cargoes carry
                          what is transformed not to be lasting
                                        thud-moon, pants of light, shirtless glory
                                                in the fainting room,


                    taut mirror of wettened options,
                         seething vine that strengthened the mortarwork of these bricks
                     varnished eight-cylinder candelabra
                                  cymbals slapping like wet fish falling
                          history's collapsed pattern the reassemblage of matter