What is seen?
My dream or what the collective agrees to?

Something else, no imagining or hybrid vigor,
pounding out an intimation of meaning
onto rough tin sheets and shingles
tilted over pine seconds of poor
quality lumber to start with, looks like.

Lambent lake water lapping on
a cinder block
foundation from the fifties,
when George Hughes owned it.

Bioglobin is what I’ll call it.
I don’t know why. Don’t ask me.
It has no meaning. 
How freedom makes humility human.
At the 9:00 A. M. meeting a member said
“Today is a gift. That’s why they
call it the present.”

I, who will surely 
die yet practice Phenomenology,
endure this hysterical woman,
these static states of pain and vision,
red eyes squinched, weakly closed,
pounding sun blood, green veins marbled in jaundice.
Her potato chip skin, its dampened flacidity.
A crying jag  springs a leak,
creates a gasolene rainbow
spreads smooth, in spots globular,
on the water in reprisal.
Your children splash, your cigarettes and vodka,
which the more tired cheap
disaster?

How we all loved this camp
before your brother
took a hot shot
of heroin last summer
and burned it down
around him.