What’s winnowed from warbling waters wearing
                                    skin and splintered stubble—

an eolian harp or a scrambling tardis,
a tarsus teasing a maundering measure
of molten jazz or disfigured, 
leathery hymnals packed
in a crackling shaft of dis-
sembling fireflies, dandling
dollops of dirging
                                    dust?

I was a monk some years fordone and dammed
and a doctor, too—was 
                                           a grumbling plumber, 
a wastrel strewn about
                                           toping leaves who’d loved

Li Bo
as much as the moon or the Ganges swoln
           by a secretly stumbling star

                                                                                and here I’m

winnowing sigils from sliced tomatoes,

groping a buoyant breast reborn in dough,

dissevering shells of the wine-blushed whelks
that reek of the seizing seas and repugnant onions,
                                               floundering root bulbs,
                                                                    parroting—

Águas de março
              Cad Goddeu
                             some birdsong stuttering coarse as a hailstorm,
                             thrum of a cringing crick deformed from the
                             soughing of sewing the skin of a parasol