"Midnight Poem."
The clouds rip and hemorrhage.
Massive wounds twisted.
Viscera unwinding.
Little golden sheep jump over my finger.
There is a star so bright and near to my elbow.
It cannot be mentioned.
I lay it in the grass like a fish to keep it alive.
The moon would run away, astounded by the teeth
of the coyotes in his soft thigh.
My friends, it is much later now.
The trees are still here.
The clouds have risen in pyramid, and died.
My poem is like the water dripping from the lampposts
onto the shining 3 o'clock lawns.