I will read a few from houseboat days.
My next last book I'd like to finish then
by reading some more recent unpublished poems.
This one from Houseboat Days is called "Street Musicians".
One died and the soul was wrenched out
of the other in life.
Who, walking the streets wrapped in an identity like a coat,
sees on and on.
The same corners, volumetrics, shadows under trees.
Farther than anyone was ever called.
Through increasingly suburban airs and ways, with autumn
falling over everything.
The plush leaves, the chattels and barrels,
of an obscure family being evicted into the way
it was, and is.
The other beached glimpses of what the other was up to.
Revelations at last.
So they grew to hate and forget each other.
So I created this average violin that knows only forgotten show
tunes but argues the possibility of free declamation anchored
to a dull refrain.
The year turning over on itself in November,
with the spaces among the day's more literal, the meat more
visible on the bone.
Our question of a place of origin hangs like smoke.
How we picnicked in pine forests, in
coves with the water always seeping up.
And left our trash, sperm, and excrement everywhere.
Smeared on the landscape, to make us what we could.