Thursday, January 14, 2016


Diving with haste
to the great
cavity's bottom—to pluck forth the coldest

and ruddiest fish,
the gift of whose girth my current
situation can afford,

I unexpectedly 
touch the tip of my cold modern nose
to old
H.D. Thoreau's—

to be so focused by bright lust, 
so clear and of a piece
in this over-
crowded store—and yet, so incomparably

vast, nameless, far
away, non-
abiding—I become thus

the madcap American God:
superior, dashing
heedless, outside time
and on

the loose
here—in Emerson's private woods.