I falter, 
I imbibe, 
I repel. 
The choice of harshness I’ve made from a marble 

The tower tells lies. In the tower, I go through rooms upon rooms of mostly velvet. The velvet is not always blue.

A red balloon wafts
over a paddock of horses
near Haworth. It lifts
on bursts of air that reverse

Some baby boomers doze in the dark hall;
others, grey or hairless, travel back,
flower children impatient for the sun to set.

The hat on my head wants to jump off the cliff each time the wind rises.
It wants to pour the darkness down its throat, into its belly.
It wishes to hold the small fate of a blade of grass in its arms.
It does not want to be worshipped by me.

On the east side of I-
81, sunflowers are

jading, but still tall as me.
On the west side, three silos,