Jet, far away, like a distant storm
If I could begin to have a conversation
with a poem—when I do
my mind wanders. Poetry goes
someplace
between here and the howling moon.
Moons—
(a small dog with a loud bark!)
Take me out of this.
A walking moon, 1935,
alongside a skiff. The gorgeous
shards of an automobile—
eleven mangled boats.
