A jet of mere phantom
Is a brook, as the land around
Turns rocky and hollow.
Those airplane sounds
Are the drowning of bicyclists.
Leaping, a bridesmaid leaps.
You asked for my autobiography.
Imagine the greeny clicking sound
Of hummingbirds in a dry wood,
And there you’d have it.
Other birds Pour over the walls now.
I’d never suspected: every day,
Although the nation is done for, I find new flowers.
– Donald Revell