White and Aimless Signals
The rain’s disguise, the day
Disguised as rain. Somewhere the rain
Is more or less, more dragging
Into cloud, less dragging water for
Clouds, making marshes into bed-
Fellows for the end of time.
Voices collect in the air.
Somewhere America disguises
Itself—it’s somewhere, it's
Better than we are, a patch
In the undergrowth, a drizzle
And a feint. Voices condense
Into clouds. Never mind the extravagance
Somewhere water enters both–
First sickness you say, and health.
Their Recidivism Revisited
A grave of fog—that's easy. You
Just dig. All that materiality, that distance
Of matter, of ideas, of
Ideals, the long, lascivious slip of the tongue.
So take your time over there—
They play three hands at once and only one
Will work. They're waiting. They heave
Satellites, bombs, the falling mercury
Of thought balled into a fist.
Consider their cadence.
Consider breathing until the last.
You never know
It all turns out strange, spiked.
And when they come back—you see
They return, they do come back—they hike under
Cover, blank misty figures in a box.