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I was going to read a few
poems from a book that Ironwood

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Press did, None, River.

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Let's see, these are earlier
poems, mostly from, I guess,

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1969, 1970.

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"Untitled"

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"Had I not come into
the room, saying

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the moon was behaving
like sod, not flesh,

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as the boys downstairs had said,
and not like anything else,

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the mind should crack
so easily or also

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be seen rising sheer
through, beyond limbs,

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leaning toward rooms, the wood.

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The wood of these rooms is
a province that infects me.

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Not enough of the flash I saw of
a man in streaks of light half

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out onto his roof, half
not, emptying a bottle,

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not enough of what
he went back for."

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