Who is that man moving ahead of us, striking butterflies together like stones? Is it the one
          they call the master of tears?

Never mind; the California quail plucking the next bush wears his astonishment on his head
          and I agree, now that I’m back where everything is water with a drop of writing in it,
          floating.

First, blood understands: my hero with a shoe of pirate and a shoe of harbor. Then words
          tear at the hair of the trees in the wood pulp of the page like helicopters coming down
          to take out the living and the dead.

Ancient rhythms, nod to your American sisters, who wipe rib sauce on their blouses with
          fingers of cook-out, fingers of good grief.

On the trail of our spines a dark and calm passing will it be ours?

The Big Bear finds a more indigo berry in the middle of September and eats the green meat
          before he sleeps.