he doesn’t particularly feel
like sharing his personal
information in any
form though he
knows that
simply writing
a series of words
reveals painfully so
the reality of his now
append a horse dowsabel
recriminate the fossick hurry
as if every breath a Rorschach
she knows how the rider races
how shadows play smallness
the lane is not a boulevard
Robert Bly or Rob’t
Creel’y ’pressed
crushing out
bay stones
confess
screw
tape
bind
letters
to a fire
is it the smithy
or an issue of heat
recount the processes
the cold conductors of this
orchestra of infinite moments
we do feel better when we hear yes
a culture of pearls & a handful of mane
the shadows in the grass compel us beyond
the emptiness of their gauge: so authentic in their
inauthenticity: marry your biography to its snippets
of dreams to its fish in a bucket to its sea in a busted cloud
or listen: i said i talked because i was afraid, that my talking was
a defense no different than silence save how some thought you were
shy because you never spoke & i knew Buck Owens was never a fake
