170 What if my thoughts of you are but the substance grown inside The forest of my bones -- invisible but with the odor Of a centennial spruce; the ore discovered in the mines Inside my eyes and smelted into precious metal, glowing? What if my thoughts of you are drawings graven onto walls And roads; the cipher in the sentences you write; the code to Sounds in your late night city, in iambic? Are my thoughts Of you the substance which can't disappear, but slowly growing, Rises as forests, from horizon to horizon; falls As anchors in your every word to hold them in the flowing Seconds; accumulates in mines to coin your money from My gold; and fills your city with my signals and my drawings?


Confined Verse
Collected Poems