... consciousness
which has nothing to gain, which awaits nothing,
which loves itself...
—George Oppen, "Of Being Numerous"

Walking in

Or on

A sunny day

It is night

Great stasis

Settles

Upon the panegyric

And in among

The border roses

Poetry implies

Place

Replies to them

Echoing

Down the hallways

Of air

In which

Pinpoint hole

In deer's eye

Grazing dumb

Our lantana and

Bougainvillea

Crying faith

In this in which

They stare 

*

Tales of the old country
Place
Left
Two talks Language
Or talk Reshaped
And then Secretly
In
Stance To make
Each thing
(Like his parents) More strange
There are
Three

*

Not appreciating
Untouched
Only coping
In being drunk, oblivious
Enough
Beyond notice
Of anything but
A smooth surface, as these
Words
Smooth
Behind which
Nothing
A sudden hidden
Emotion,
Urge
But these
Beyond comment
Plunge on
A germ
Almost
Of getting around
What
Stops
The very little sense
Of being one,
One has got
In this in which
Any invitation
Almost always
Moves
Changing
Their view of it
It seems to be
Sneaky, these times,
That something
Wills to change
And the government
Produces
Slowly
Can't
Define
Accidental flow