it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Man's a wheel, six-armed and strong
His right-passage is rough and fleeting
Strong-soled through rain and sleeting
Though to him his journey is long
Upon himself he turns but the most
Is constantly inconstant to boast
An axle fixed in his middle must be
Though reinvented as pulley or gear
And cleaned of long dropping, dun smear
For his going-forth at last to be free.


The Poet Raises a Toast

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
We look to a lighter mood
As the warm wind through the wood
In the curious gray night
Of out-prolonged twilight
Slight, is the spell in its subtlety
Bereft and inure though we be
We are not all frost-bit
Not all urine and spit
To wit, we need no book
Nor a song for the hook
Though it be but in our head
Though we be still dead
I said, I am yet grown old
That the tale may be told
That on an autumnday night
In a strange twilight
In spite of blood-dark wine
And every line, line, line
On my face, every one
That we first grew young.



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
My hands and face, smell of this fragrance
Of hot coal and fire as I lean to stoke
With rich oil falls and wood births smoke
And time is sure unwound in a glance.



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
A frame: The moment after and before
Ever turning old fashioned film strip
Behind the eyes, call the key grip
Unseen dollies whir and soar
The pencil fails the camera crew
Even the photographer at last knew
In the corner of a memory stayed
I, without believing or knowing
Set a whole film crew to going
And forgot more art than I made.