The balcony is cut swiftlyfalls as a drawbridgeA secret two-story harp(exposed) (mangled)Marimba Eroicacold fog.I lay my handson silver stringsit’s no secretI form my owninstrumentsan oval, shimmeringkingdom, lightlimestone greenwiresfor the sharprain-like turnin a songthat leavesimpressionsdotted furieslocks impoundedlined paperpelican inks(repeat)ousted galaxyheadlong rushrevolving the bloodplacing clear agatesup against the ledgeliquid formsworship empty skies.His voice stepsover the runningof the bath, knockingof the shadein the next roomhis reading holdsa jagged sensehe may not make itHe clatters onin brokennessas if he werehiking (in ascension)citing certainmedicine wordsin order.Moonscape in reversescattered rocks cuttingup and away from the wavessix descending tones—mustard—bleached gold—flamingo—Mars red—burnt orange—bleeding covedry underneatha torch to lick the wallsa singer to catch the song.Read Indian Oratory deep in the nightAnd cut it all up“Looking Glass is dead—The circular blue paper is the sky.”.In Joanne Kyger’s poems the ground is formed from last night’s dreamThe thick Tibetan rope is piled like a snake, a young fruit tree shades the long plank benchAn agate sits as a stopper in the glass bottle“The wind is in the light of the sun”The tide forms an inlet, cutting off a small boat anchored beside timid loversThe ends of clouds have spiral lines like scrolls, Japanese woodcuts of waves spilling over“A lone hummingbird sits on the limb where there used to be two”The poplars grow past a red circular sun, dense lines quilted behind it, frozen in light, a postcard cut tall and thinThe foot-prints are traced beyond the cliffsLong stories are meant for empty containersThe woodpile is arranged upside down, wisps of cold, web-like grass underneathThe black branches hang down and narrow to purple leaves dividing the page