page 100

Thirst

It is all these blooms withhold
That keeps them vivid—
One is a gramophone-horn.

I may walk to the airport.

I like to get up close
To silver skins with rivets,
To halted things made frank about their scale.

I know a bright tunnel
Containing demonstrations of its own
Insides, own functions.

Lemonade or sand:
Teach me which to drink.

The square, the park, the idle intersection
(Forever void of more than simply you)
Dare not move an inch.