Three For Cemetery Statues By The Atlantic, Falmouth, Massachusetts 1977
The silt of September's enough!
Hard clay of October be bust!
A fist to the day's end,
black blade pierce the heart
if I cannot kiss you, oh Mud,
cannot push my face into
your belly moaning thick-
love of the world,
eating fossil and coal,
drinking ancient tar
and artesian melt-
if I cannot have it then
I have not known the Jehovah Man.
I have breathed salt for nothing,
taken all words for fool's
bedding, crushed them
like my brother, flung them
over fences, slain them
all to the last letter,
each a shattered stilt.