Dear;

Haydn is
lovely to-night because (I am a GermanAmerican German) and the woollyheaded black and white dogs are
crooning out towards the Eros of a moon: but isn't it funny how composers never speak? how you can stuff Mozart into the back of an old flatbed truck, drive off to the center of Town and yell at him to quote Hopkins
to the late night shoppers? the eyes of grace
are fallen on the roads back towards Babylon because some-
one has forgotten a parcel or an inscribed pen or fancy stationary purchased on a trip around the world. some-
thing simple that is not considered until the world is ending; the ground tasting of salt from face pressed against the hot desert pavement

if poetry were made of any element, it would be lanthanum

~*~

the snow
is exactly
sounding of
(exactly) the
sea or standing
beside the
sea and trying
to find unconscious
grinning in the
emptied
summer houses. the
cadavers of shark eggs or lonely men with dapper moustaches and hats are
chasing about the rinded wind:

~*~

I wrote a play but burned it. so do tell:
at the center of the eloquent universe
is a tavern floor. it is empty. Haydn's 100th
is fluttering in all cabbage
white mayfly nuances and outlined footprints. one
was here. and stood. at the center
of the universe. there is tautness of leather catstring or
the after of
a violin. at the center of the universe

~*~

Sincerely signed
in portraits breaking the finest timber from breathless snowy
woods in eddies of
perfectly individual

straining
sawdust