On telling me snowsleds or dire news looks that bring rain to a desert excommunicado leaving the country in secret

With all oily paperbacks stacked in his orange bag is eastern, or is blue or grey or green or is it blue-grey in the version

Alternatively titled The Bank Clerk Throws a Party? She revisits the slop house by the stand-up train station

And looking up from her chippy glass of icewater the inviolate children from her third divorce march out to the beach receipts from a spring white sale

You’re knocking on my white doors days wash off the beach and there’s my laundry pops out of the sky there’s a tennis pro

Who discovered he could discover the sorcerer behind the Los Angeles Lakers’ success with circles

When a gypsy twittering over good portraits of anonymous criminals Who is the latest and the greatest racket-stringer?

Phony footballs drop on the tops of trees of course the train wakes the dispirited dork with his face in the mud

To a reassessment of his wheaty song book You look like sometimes cards crawl up your sleeves or these young toughs herd you into another postal code

Where the only light is from whatever the sun has left after its memory is swept along

And at the end of the sentence, a new sentence suddenly, too resplendent so all livestock moves overseas to an island

So hot synthetic fabrics fall churning from the sky in flames!

O farm animals whose uses of danger oversee my seduction by sleeping pills a mountaintop I climbed to to do my laundry

Do I love doors in eucalyptus trees or your show horse at free church on Sundays

And egg salad or tigers as winter overcomes the urge to stretch its legs

Day traders bending lower than the original Japanese and now coming into view the icy gown and the fir tree?