The Posture


I was not all, but the strangest thing:
So much concerned with all but pearly days.
I should have owned them; the world
can not go flying; thought is to be cut short.

Do not hold still.

I am not all as I pass the doubling hemorrhage
of taking and sweeping and passing and mulch,
of living so much reduced by expectation,
of forgetting what goes unmended or unlifted.

Not all. Some money is the hide.
I have buried hides without money.
Not all. Some worth is the act.
I act at times without worth.

I have my redoubling of every single one,
a care that people much concerned could
scuttle over them to be caught.
They are not all, but you, and suddenly,
a jerk or flit in posture come to life.


Price Per Gallon


Sun and windshield skiff the wheel,
dolling a bright death in squints through cute.
Only a passenger, and that a young husband,
the one created from trial and wires,
is allowed to sit stayance near this view.

The engine makes lulling and hums the limbs
but he tries keep up, to see the road angle.

Have him through, car, long drive, carry roads
under wheels, back west from visitation north,
and hold him to the road, concrete on soil,
belt him to seats that life might know how
he has come along with it.