(for joan)
who's likely westering til some empty words of mine hurry in at a spot
by a lake full of Rauschenberg
so I can grab on to a length of shore, gold like her very self, and the wise
impassivity of her geese and all
She's away and trenchant as her pure mind is, intent on the lake that
may or mayn't reply to her,
too flustered by rootless ideas, I guess, and guys like me who did hurt
the true dear Acadian in her
She of a quiet verve who moves you instead to discompose the unkind
and the untrue, every time--
til sadly all you're left with is a patch of pure land at her bench emptying,
and never still as you'd like
her to be
