The rag that swiped the skate blades clean
            of slush, drying now

                        in the trash barrel, a 50-gallon fire
                                    burning up the teahouse trash

and samurai armor, those dragon scales 
            humbler than the pants that boys put on 
            between 5th grade & 6th 

                        behind a levee, rain on the river

“rain; empty river; a voyage”

like carrier pigeons flying home, footsteps
            on a run of wooden stairs

                        near the wildwood,
                                    where a swallow dies of hunger,
                                    winter’s end

in costume, & all by itself,
            the sunset

                        a red bowling shirt with black piping
                                    on the collar

going forth with vehemence
            into darkness, the rebee’s daughter, hot as ever

for Benya Krik, the wish to be something forbidden
            or flavorful as always

                        on the skinny legs of the pert, a taste

            brined in boatyard puddles, the reflections of a yacht
                        that drips seawater in November

when hoisted up, glorious & miserable,
            a wall calendar that had fallen

long ago, the child having been
            born at last, sloppy & lawless—

            Here we go, I thought, face down 
                        in autumn’s indispensable blue pillow book,
                        here we go again, full speed ahead.