Now you would not think

The twenty three twi-night years
were a piece with me,

the three seven or so cry-life years
I sat with for several friends,

and any reframed by godly doubt
I sat on sleeping, for all but a wooden

hour where it bled down to the intensive
grass, chewed at limit and listens when:

I was the wretched whiteness
espying the baptismal white dove

I was the wisp flying black on
water as your brown wrist stood firm

I was the tempting color brand just a
shade of external city ways

I was the breed green-of-leaf covering
clung to beatle knit love

I was the clean perfidious river
emaciated in hazy staying lips

I was the coronet shape hatched flat
blowing glass returns from sand

(Now you would not think)
I was the Minnesota feline sound