the loud swung road
not loosed in narrow
cared quick a curve,
lack; the night, a glass
(the warm of green)
a same, affixed confession:
our baths, wresting eases to
we swell with it, we strum
alarm. It has not yet bent
along a rivet, never creasing
strain could dispossess us
to allow the faintest
toward any town at all
(elation like seeing)
forget the next of
the field
us -- unfathomable,
accosting us
