Parading

So instead of getting to Heaven, at last —

All weeds. I see it from the train, citybound, how the yuccas and chicory

Let us be unashamed of soul,

that runs along the lines, bright

and when the sun is out, we disappear.

pestling the unalterable

ghosts leave: retinal

So often I would itch

while the world tilts

Here is a map of our country: