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HUGH
STEINBERG
Your World
in
pockets, is nothing in
itself,
that asphalt, those letters,
says I remember, it swept through
me,
stayed, in sweat, on the teeth,
the breath, sweeping, I am sweeping,
it
is to break roots or
black rain, the so small the
slippery
chances
of the sky, what
should we save, what was saved? Hide
in
long grass wasted time, you
will bear it, in
your
heart,
you will take it
out of your mouth and
say
they should be
taken, it passed through
them
so quickly it tore them:
we live in this breach, we
can lie there, we can
kiss,
it would draw the
wild grass over us, we have lost
nothing, nothing
is lost, yellow
grass, straw, when have I
ever
left you, when did I
stop
carrying you? With my mouth,
my
goldteeth, here, scouring,
broken
down, in streamvoices,
black on gray stones
small
wings flutter
here
and also
here 
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