It seemed like a huge part of our lives
revolved around the woodpile, all buzz
and splatter one minute, low wigwams the next.

He made a horse, like what was on the farm
at which end of the store they let
the young men practice. (The others dress funny.)
Kids used to hang around, queering the pitch for

the vanilla tower

following its pipsqueak editor out
into the brilliant day, of casings, undeliverable, unprogrammed
appliance scepters, more. High bleachers shut off
a section of downtown. It’s a part of France,

but I don’t drink at these fountains.

His sister writes back and
thick as the dust on these reports (that’s
my definition anyway, all enthusiastic,
...