Charity
Careful of the book, you'll offend it. You think the lake empty, suddenly thirty ducks arrive in the club car, twenty valorous sheep, a bough on stilts. At six in the evening, four in the morning, three in the afternoon, squall light, sky warm, riders belly up to the stars, clouds clearing the weir. You must draw a poem, no more room, birth inventing spiritual patrimony. Gable in a storm, his pants crease working up, broke the filly right there in the truck. There are loud voices under the river, a teacher giving instruction, the doctors' unappeased rage in the ceaseless hammering of knees, the sullen, ground down look of continual promise. Take my lighter wit's music, you're safer uptown, you'll bury the mall clique In rubbish on a stoop. Absence embraces light, bitterness of anointment, sky, day, elation aligned. Her father rescues the sofa's descent to the basement, garage, curb, or church. She wonders what had clued him in casually, creamy tongued, eye-glassed, expecting pinches of flesh, lips blown, cool glazing, fewer introductions with clearer means of ignoring faces.