Butter
A Welshman has taken
his nervous bank with him to the beaches
of Spain, from a glass-louvered bottom
of a small yacht he watches the vaulting ribs
of a sunken ship emptied
of the marigolds of salad
and dominion. His girlfriend’s
breasts are copper; he will
sell, he thinks, his dead father’s
dairy farm in late September.
Septembre. Septembre.
He is honestly reading a short story
by Poe. Thunderheads
moving over the lighter casino clouds
of mid-morning. He wonders
about Samuel Beckett
at late night rehearsals.
Spear points and bullwhips
up in the darkening sky. Who wants to die
in Springtime with a collapsed market
and in Paris. He laughs
having just bought back the farm. The slang
of the Americans gaining on him. 
Again
At the Tomb of Naiads
Butter
The Hat Called Sky
The Quotations of Bone
The Quotations of Meat
Sif Mons & the Messenger Birth Star