She looks at your papers.

I write my God in blue.

I climbed through woods in the hour-before-dawn dark.

I don’t know who needs to hear this

Listen to the children

Happy the man, whose wish and care

The rolls and harrows lie at rest beside

By way of my mother, the deacon with the slick gray hair and money

Because it whitens and five

which regenerate their tails

I am standing at the lip of the ocean, watching

First in the womb, my own space capsule

the Cold War just ended    a lone sun in the belly of the flying

My delirium is a transformocean

the idea of my current life began

All things begin from the spindle,

1. At this precise moment of history

None of the streets here has a name,

O thou bright jewel in my aim I strive

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