Haze horns in with ire for summer.
Even bad dreams spill through into morning: waxy cylinders of
belted sunlight. We Never Close. A western anthem. In my mother's
mouth are many scansions, but earthliness has something wanting
in spite of its honey. When I was a bud I hustled sandbags for
a quarter. I wore the bell. I sent or sat among daisies. Translate
the dollar. Follow that pen. Fall for piffle, yet. I miss the
town that born me.