Read A Wave for Free Online Page A

room. Yes,
    And you have created it by going away. Somewhere, someone
    Listens for your laugh, swallows it like a drink of cool water,
    Neither happy nor aghast. And the stance, that post standing there, is you.

Introduction
    To be a writer and write things
    You must have experiences you can write about.
    Just living won’t do. I have a theory
    About masterpieces, how to make them
    At very little expense, and they’re every
    Bit as good as the others. You can
    Use the same materials of the dream, at last.
    It’s a kind of game with no losers and only one
    Winner—you. First, pain gets
    Flashed back through the story and the story
    Comes out backwards and woof-side up. This is
    No one’s story! At least they think that
    For a time and the story is architecture
    Now, and then history of a diversified kind.
    A vacant episode during which the bricks got
    Repointed and browner. And it ends up
    Nobody’s, there is nothing for any of us
    Except that fretful vacillating around the central
    Question that brings us closer,
    For better and worse, for all this time.

I See, Said the Blind Man, as He Put Down His Hammer and Saw
    There is some charm in that old music
    He’d fall for when the night wind released it—
    Pleasant to be away; the stones fall back;
    The hill of gloom in place over the roar
    Of the kitchens but with remembrance like a bright patch
    Of red in a bunch of laundry. But will the car
    Ever pull away and spunky at all times he’d
    Got the mission between the ladder
    And the slices of bread someone had squirted astrology over
    Until it took the form of a man, obtuse, out of pocket
    Perhaps, probably standing there.
    Can’t you see how we need these far-from-restful pauses?
    And in the wind neighbors and such agree
    It’s a hard thing, a milestone of sorts in some way?
    So that the curtains contribute what charm they can
    To the spectacle: an overflowing cesspool
    Among the memoirs of court life, the candy, cigarettes,
    And what else. What kind is it, is there more than one
    Kind, are people forever going to be at the edge
    Of things, even the nice ones, and when it happens
    Will we all be alone together? The armor
    Of these thoughts laughs at itself
    Yet the distances are always growing
    With everything between, in between.

Edition Peters, Leipzig
    Another blueprint: some foxing, woolly the foliage
    On this dusky shrine
    Under the glass dome on the spinet
    To make it seem all these voices were once one.
    Outside, the rout continues:
    The clash erupting to the very door, but the
    Door is secure. There is room here still
    For thoughts like ferns being integrated
    Into another system, something to scare the night away,
    And when morning comes they have gone, only the dew
    Remains. What more did we want anyway?
    I’m sorry. We believe there is something more than attributes
    And coefficients, that the giant erection
    Is something more than the peg on which our lives hang,
    Ours, yours … The core is not concern
    But for afternoon busy with blinds open, restless with
    Search-and-destroy missions, the approach to business is new
    And ancient and mellow at the same time. For them to gain
    Their end, the peace of fireworks on a vanishing sky,
    We have to bother. Please welcome the three insane interviewers
    Each with his astrolabe and question.
    And the days drain into the sea.

37 Haiku
    Old-fashioned shadows hanging down, that difficulty in love too soon
    Some star or other went out, and you, thank you for your book and year
    Something happened in the garage and I owe it for the blood traffic
    Too low for nettles but it is exactly the way people think and feel
    And I think there’s going to be even more but waist-high
    Night occurs dimmer each time with the pieces of light smaller and squarer
    You have original artworks hanging on the walls oh I said edit
    You nearly undermined the brush I now place against the ball field arguing
    That love was a round place and will still be there two years from now
    And it is