My own four 
hundred blows   
erupt with bb gun punctured   
windows driving by, glass cubes   
hold a whole reflection like   
 fractured hologram, which I   
have never understood   Cantos bulk up the 
 waves   because I'm not doing so well   
these days with Persephone and   
the lamb; sheep dog holds   back lolling lik
 e tongues glass cubes   Committed to the deep saves   
 shoes, erupted flows odor   
with Persephone penetrated   seeds cracked 
 open and counted  for days, reverberate 
dogs  held back, sticks from 

I dream this hill in reverse   that
  the image is less likely   and waves, 
 tears to my eyes, 
informal, swept the ring 

in the dirt her   premonition thuds 
consciousness  pan right for purer composition   
Clouds rise from shoes struggle   
rings scud outwards, my man   Cantos draft pregnant sails,   
 She moves away crablike. Grant's   
measure, Neitzsche, and others   
 claim her life this blow follows   hard on the hee
 ls of the lolling  dirt, dark rich deep cool soil.   
No further 
 endings, mere, horse   Mom, sea never to sell not   
ever so you can 
 sleep here   under the coup number. 
The hare   is a perverse lover like 
young   restless boys, sublimate this   
horse and sea cuckold, left   
out girls for the other ending   
military academies, clinks, vache, blow me.   

The East Village Poetry Web
Ryan Whyte