The boughs lay withered beyond the brow 1

What is not said in the garden 2

The sparrow on the trough is world enough 3

The garden in the ruined abbey brims 4

Your face was the chalk in these hills 5

The fen stretches out like prairie, the canals 6

They married looking out to sea, the west 7

All from the stars the shards fell, light condensed 8

The winter of our breath was the blue 9

So the wind was on your sleeve: you asked me 10

Taboo in the stem of my skull, the danger 11

You sang, black Madonna, your breasts more perfect 12

The cusp of the dark falls on Central Park 13

Breath, too, can plummet, magic rougher 14

The aspersion she cast cuts deep: the times 15

Impostors shape fictions of marrow and soul 16

Son, you were allergic to filberts then 17

Daughter, you are more delicate 18

Vexation burned when the sun beat on the waves 19

The tongue is spare: the wind lifts on the dirt road 20

This harvest is the sap that moves in us, 21

The dog beyond the gate barked, as if 22

If joy could screeve from lung and marrow 23

You sculch my secret signs, as though I illude 24

The scree on the beach was lost in your breath 25

The renitency of the will opposes all 26

The sea scrubs the rock, the clouds on the cape 27

The turquoise water is not faked on a postcard. 28

The windows of the moon have cast 29

They were quartering us in these streets 30

There was a window on the stars, the cusp 31

Keel, mast, sail in wind, sea, sky shake and bend 32

Her pale hair stumbled in the wood, and he rode 33

There was jazz playing in a room away 34

The winds rise over the plain outside Paris 35

Till we fled Calais these two terrains 36

Window night-frame time of the moon 37

I have washed too many I have watched 38

There were stones there were knives 39

It's not custom to begin with the couplet 40

The angles of the moon over, through those trees, 41

The absence of your breath heats my marrow 42

The embarrassment of words abandons us 43

The hawthorn trembles in rain and ice 44

Just when it seems she will sing deport 45

Through the threshold the pollen draws, the light 46

And yet the morning light held you, the cuts 47

When I was young the world was young: you know 48

It would be as the wind, but some force 49

This night, like the vanity of death, 50

Palm trees came to France in 1864 51

Freezing to death is not an act of love 52

Your arms are not a trope, and hyperbole 53

Flint, outcrop, overhang: I made my way 54

So much depends on the glibness of words, 55

I am not certain: je ne suis pas sûr 56

When Venus moved her headquarters, she sighed 57

The closer to the ground, the more fictional 58

Silent devotion at first light, wind 59

Those catacombs, stacked with skulls and bones 60

The way trains move, poetry moves 61

I have a whole cache I will one day 62

You see before you a man more ridiculous 63

In your eyes along the streets can I see 64

A Romanesque bridge joins one hill 65

Dusk falls over a land cut and crossed, 66

The country is not pastoral: it was 67

Nostalgia and utopia, past and future, 68

The nuclear power plants smoke over the land 69

The clouds lie over the land near Avignon 70

The cars on the rail line are stacked up 71

Another poet scoffed when I said 72

Why is it the poplar leaves turn in the sun 73

Made of systems? Love and justice have lost out 74

The warehouses, spills, heaps, strews, broken waste 75

On an outcrop in Central Park, we talk 76

Girders and glass roofs extend at round 77

Who would hear me above the surf, the remains 78

The dead stars rise over the ridge, the garden 79

My heart is even lonelier than my face 80

Winter has its verges, not a green snow 81

Roses are more gorgeous than us: we are as birds 82

Remember our mothers who bore us 83

The season of our wooing, a stillness now, 84

World, breath, disinherited us, even 85

A certain happiness exists despite 86

Ropes, planks, cups, lines, buckets, tiles, fieldstones 87

Pain like bread breaks and tears, and in France 88

Our whatever is an asymptote and not 89

It is not as if the sun and I 90

The white cliffs above Cassis 91

The shadows of the evening still across 92

For him, there is only one poet: his wife. 93

Something rebarbative lives in this life 94

These eyes, joints, gums ache with an age 95

You watch the dying light after the star 96

There's something about a train that is like 97

On the brink of simile I faced 98

Your heart is knapped flint, or is it mine? 99

Love is a Stonehenge, virtual to some, 100

The hills are burial mounds: the oaks drape 101

The Georgian calms the world about, hills slant 102

The speculation of music has 103

We rose from dust on a day not of our 104

The wind was slapping the water, and the surf 105

What of the furtive thief of love stealing 106

You don't have to be Richard the Third 107

How to keep the deep fluster and rush 108

The barges slip along the Seine, the wind has died 109

A certain happiness exists despite 86

A Romanesque bridge joins one hill 65

All from the stars the shards fell, light condensed 8

And yet the morning light held you, the cuts 47

Another poet scoffed when I said 72

Breath, too, can plummet, magic rougher 14

Daughter, you are more delicate 18

Dusk falls over a land cut and crossed, 66

Flint, outcrop, overhang: I made my way 54

For him, there is only one poet: his wife. 93

Freezing to death is not an act of love 52

Girders and glass roofs extend at round 77

Her pale hair stumbled in the wood, and he rode 33

How to keep the deep fluster and rush 108

I am not certain: je ne suis pas sûr 56

I have a whole cache I will one day 62

I have washed too many I have watched 38

If joy could screeve from lung and marrow 23

Impostors shape fictions of marrow and soul 16

In your eyes along the streets can I see 64

It is not as if the sun and I 90

It would be as the wind, but some force 49

It's not custom to begin with the couplet 40

Just when it seems she will sing deport 45

Keel, mast, sail in wind, sea, sky shake and bend 32

Love is a Stonehenge, virtual to some, 100

Made of systems? Love and justice have lost out 74

My heart is even lonelier than my face 80

Nostalgia and utopia, past and future, 68

On an outcrop in Central Park, we talk 76

On the brink of simile I faced 98

Our whatever is an asymptote and not 89

Pain like bread breaks and tears, and in France 88

Palm trees came to France in 1864 51

Remember our mothers who bore us 83

Ropes, planks, cups, lines, buckets, tiles, fieldstones 87

Roses are more gorgeous than us: we are as birds 82

Silent devotion at first light, wind 59

So much depends on the glibness of words, 55

So the wind was on your sleeve: you asked me 10

Something rebarbative lives in this life 94

Son, you were allergic to filberts then 17

Taboo in the stem of my skull, the danger 11

The absence of your breath heats my marrow 42

The angles of the moon over, through those trees, 41

The aspersion she cast cuts deep: the times 15

The barges slip along the Seine, the wind has died 109

The boughs lay withered beyond the brow 1

The cars on the rail line are stacked up 71

The closer to the ground, the more fictional 58

The clouds lie over the land near Avignon 70

The country is not pastoral: it was 67

The cusp of the dark falls on Central Park 13

The dead stars rise over the ridge, the garden 79

The dog beyond the gate barked, as if 22

The embarrassment of words abandons us 43

The fen stretches out like prairie, the canals 6

The garden in the ruined abbey brims 4

The Georgian calms the world about, hills slant 102

The hawthorn trembles in rain and ice 44

The hills are burial mounds: the oaks drape 101

The nuclear power plants smoke over the land 69

The renitency of the will opposes all 26

The scree on the beach was lost in your breath 25

The sea scrubs the rock, the clouds on the cape 27

The season of our wooing, a stillness now, 84

The shadows of the evening still across 92

The sparrow on the trough is world enough 3

The speculation of music has 103

The tongue is spare: the wind lifts on the dirt road 20

The turquoise water is not faked on a postcard. 28

The warehouses, spills, heaps, strews, broken waste 75

The way trains move, poetry moves 61

The white cliffs above Cassis 91

The wind was slapping the water, and the surf 105

The winds rise over the plain outside Paris 35

The windows of the moon have cast 29

The winter of our breath was the blue 9

There was a window on the stars, the cusp 31

There was jazz playing in a room away 34

There were stones there were knives 39

There's something about a train that is like 97

These eyes, joints, gums ache with an age 95

They married looking out to sea, the west 7

They were quartering us in these streets 30

This harvest is the sap that moves in us, 21

This night, like the vanity of death, 50

Those catacombs, stacked with skulls and bones 60

Through the threshold the pollen draws, the light 46

Till we fled Calais these two terrains 36

Vexation burned when the sun beat on the waves 19

We rose from dust on a day not of our 104

What is not said in the garden 2

What of the furtive thief of love stealing 106

When I was young the world was young: you know 48

When Venus moved her headquarters, she sighed 57

Who would hear me above the surf, the remains 78

Why is it the poplar leaves turn in the sun 73

Window night-frame time of the moon 37

Winter has its verges, not a green snow 81

World, breath, disinherited us, even 85

You don't have to be Richard the Third 107

You sang, black Madonna, your breasts more perfect 12

You sculch my secret signs, as though I illude 24

You see before you a man more ridiculous 63

You watch the dying light after the star 96

Your arms are not a trope, and hyperbole 53

Your face was the chalk in these hills 5

Your heart is knapped flint, or is it mine? 99