A bird first, then a snake, then a toad,

my evening walk.

Whatever comes next, friendly to creation.

A slammed cardoor alerts the wilderness.

A slow raising of heads.

The moon watched by Leopardi governs.

An axle settles in a budding grove.

Somewhere in the anthill is just right.

The 19th century's leaning against trees is over.

Oil flowers on the pools.

The zoo's bear at the zoo.

A bottle in Maine.

Virgin Maine.

The woods now are all garden.

Not even sandgrains are clones, nor snowflakes.

We travel to the moon in silver clothes.

The car, after mountainclimbing seen, how foursquare!

Ant-meets-wall-its-six-feet-never-miss-a-step.

The rubythroated Clytemnestra.

Chernobyl's spread stain.

The soundlessness of fat paws.

The Maine bear in a dream.

Old Sam-Behind-The-Trees

keeps threading around us,

red tag stapled to his ear. Collage.

One cylinder has its eye closed

for dreaming. Slow but sure

in the woods, that old car.

And next? The terminal's new

for me, if not for the train.

Onna no ko  devotchka.

As the spider said,

having longrolled his fly, "Well,

that about wraps this up!"