keep to the right rags,
bones at midnight. first
murderer of the world halts.
of this Ithaca sings—
I want to see the citizen,
or wonderful, in the city.
want to give
citizen one thing or another decent—
fair land. the land of high renown
in murmuring too numerous
be mild. of the west and lofty,
world is thoroughly lovely in singing.
she had the method of writing
from disoccupied signs.
in digital completion she abandoned
to the corrosive action of green alias.
the absentminded beggar laughed.
I suppose it would be
was a butcher’s son
nine lives for his fathers one.
a forecast of the concentration
this age of man hath the virtue of chameleon...
to change hue at every approach...
to be merry or mournful chewing reminiscence...
that agent of a modest score of years
in Ithaca’s hand her favorite blue
as it skates across her sky.
her knees are tucked beneath.
her copper hair is just long enough now
it streams across the table.
in the circle she traces the line
of her mother’s smile,
her father’s forking
legs. she draws upward
into her lollipop tree,
and back down
to her lime-green horizon.