It's been two years, one of grief and sort of inarticulate rage that

I saw as being something I could say. The first was the breakdown,

the second of talking. I'm at my best I know when I have something to praise,

The leafless trees, the treeless leaves, the wind that animates them both

Is my great secret and I sometimes think the source of the mystery at my core

That still allows me friends.

A year and a half, I've had the same

Phone number, reality, non-redeeming guilt and redeeming sense of self.

I don't have the same friends, or same craving to love and be loved beyond

Those trees, that sky, these keys I know. I've forgotten the best lines

In writing back to students, but can picture students in my head

And think of how I know them now. Better with names, worse with faces,

I met some people whom I ought to know

And then forgot.

Triangles

I. Unbounded triangles from a single line.

II. Concentric triangles from a single line.

III. Overlapping visible lines.

IV. I have separated a line into its triangles.

V. Seeing the iris, I assume the triangles.

VI. Two opposing noses, formed Romanlike triangles.

VII. Lines that do not meet cannot form triangles.

VIII. How can I form a face without triangles.

IX. Should they become clocks or triangles?

Pastoral

Or the huddled difference in degree between

The wind turbine and the settled land

An ideal sunset like afterbirth across the sky.

shared space apart from semantic

space, apart from semantic chains

Nothing but the reality of the image

No coffee cups, cigars or plow

Fields with no manure or labor.

The image lacks the smell of semen.