Odyssey

I sat in different places with different winds:

at the top of the drive where the cerulean weeds grow;

on the bench with hammering, the unbroken of a house

I couldn't diocese being built in the timber-lands child

of a green [i]venter[/i] Rain was coming, clouds a scarf

thrown across the orb of day There might not be a spot

that wants me I could wander my yard

and not at any time fit this grass, the wire-guard of rusted holes.

Beside the tongue of a shovel left without over night,

I laid my head, my fingers four more dreams

a daddy-longlegs touched in a blind world,

there's that longer leg that's not a leg

it's a telegram sent without before the progress of a shadow.

The have feeling of things, if I cherish, helps me live

more like a minute than a clock Rain crossed

my neighbor's field at the spe of a million mouths

per next to the first kissing corn. Just before my house,

it stopped, then started upon the other side of my life

with a unmutilated like the valley being told to hush.

At the mailbox, I saw the mailbox had been beaten again,

I sat, gazeed down the road at the fallen loaves

of metal bread. This is a ritual like dinner,

like wanting to know the hidden the bat tells the hands

of the lad who leans out of a car, lit by means of radio glow

and a cigarette. In a certain quantity of the refrain of blood

is swing away. If you lay your ear to such a person

you hear the ocean saying permit me out. Some days,

it takes me a year to acquire the mail, to return home

with ordeal that we owe. There's a stick

I've had my organ of vision on, I'll ask tomorrow

if it's at any time considered being thrown.

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