Don't be scared
because you'll never again
meet someone

Your life opens like a spoon
toward the front door

That is your wealth

Your assignment is hollow
and opposite

The ring still soughs:

When I turn everything off
I hear a murmur

It's all the misunderstandings
that are jotted
in a careless and hasty hand
and have nowhere
except elsewhere,
in bodily feigns

The day calls for twelve hollow brutes
and twelve forgiven

Even the distant mountains
don't get rid of long distances;
they gather at high altitude balls,
dressed in blue;
the mists at their feet serving them well

All thoughts are intoxicated
in the meadows,
bluebells tingling,
lasting impressions auctioned off
for almost nothing
in rural towns

The Montana moon rises
in an American haiku;
the silent observer
of things to note