These poems are from the final section, "Body."
"Behind the pupil, a floret of lines burst toward release.
A question is raised.
The body gives its cross hatched replies.
Whatever in the bloom, what never on what dream's
shelf is ever wilting.
On top the night's helm, my howling, starless, stark ahems.
The tyrant ahas.
Unmoored from port of stem, thinkers keep their words.
Put too many coins in G D. It doesn't play.
And then if still, or even unplugged,
from the hook and home by.
Get me down, I'm upside down.
Trying the will, riding it.
Bones tell too much of life to skin.
Behind all faces, all bone.
I saw in one moment an eye open enough to soften the gaze.
In there, should dare, weigh nothing.
Walking days under rib cage of oaks by the river.
Sometimes it oakens.
You are in the body of oak bones.
Other times, whitens, in grimace.
Retrieves a perceiving.
Or it could be a body.
It might be your body.
In that case, how silly all this time.
Belief in nothing.
Collecting the lateness of hours.
Sun and sea, setting light as face.
Reflecting, finding a sameness in things.
The body took the blame for the deeds of the mind.
It was this kind of human."