First of all, take the trail to the forest.
Then remove the difficult poets, the street poets, the gun poets. 
Throttle them.
Then take the next doorway and pocket the tape.
Then take a fresh take on it all.

Now we step into the same river, carelessly, as between friends.
Here we go, into the world: 
				Poets all, 
				Lyrical as.
				Bank on it.

My ideas scull the thermals
they come back to settle by my feet

The ginger cat wafts like seed-pod fluff
cruising the margins of his drift

Books line shelves, words line books
coffee cups line the kitchen sink

When power lines end in infinity
how should we ask where they start?

“There’s some funny winds out there,”
said the boatman, scratching his neck.

The first easterly (ever) roared down,
laying unprepared trees on their backs.

Deep contour troughs of rain collected
like overhead ponds and then dumped

gallons too thick to see through, too thin
to handle hydro dams in the south.

Grey-green children howled at the door
dripping with things that used to matter

yelling for more, and more, and more
while the rivers ran upside down.