Jane's my best friend, in a world where we're both blessed
with several best friends.
This first poem I'll read is a list
of gifts for a list of recipients.
And the potatoes are for you, and the rock at the end
is yours.
"Three potatoes for the boys who would drill
imperceptibly into the sun, a substantial lunch.
For the Pentagon official who suggested
that when the day comes we should all
be prepared to hide under a lilac bush, a lilac bush.
For the woman who waited 12 years for her husband to rub her
one inch lower, and a little lighter, 12 more,
a little lighter.
For the moth canvassing the plastic bag
preserving three potatoes, a pickaxe, and the master plan.
For the mind in navy blue controlling the hand
on the knuckled throttle, its due pause.
For the girl in braces with the doll in braces,
her own smile, a cake the size of this room.
For the cake the size of this room, an aerial view.
For a six-story house of cards built on Saturday by two boys
at a resort by the sea, for the boxes of black raspberries,
for the boys by the sea, for the yellow black-eyed Susans,
for the copper mushrooms, glass, and ants scattered,
for the quick speed rush of color, grasshoppers' shadow,
and onyx drum roll in the belly, for 25 boxcars,
buckled and turning into a stand of eucalyptus breaking,
finally into the sinus of the perpetual town,
the heat of the rock you carry from the sudden rain."