The pine-trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters
Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter;
While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.

Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede,
Winding about their dimness the mist’s

Awoken by the immaculate flaw
in my bed. Quietude, hollowed

limbs through which the breeze
still moves. Despite molecules

I’ve come to intuit wavelengths,
how Made in America illustrates

that most blown, charitable days
revolve this walk swept of sand.

Smashed

Levinas asked if we have the right
To be        the way I ask my sons
If they’d like to be trees       

The way the word tree
Makes them a little animal
Dancing up and down
Like bears in movies
                 
Bears I have to say
Pretend we are children