Here is a poem in a form (the "nocturne"), circa mid 90s.
in Pawtuxet, with the "pioneers"
The night air is soft, the trees hold their places,
the meeting's adjourned, we emerge from the loft.
The streetlight illuminates (diverted faces).
The night air is soft.
Words, words, tarred with a treacherous weft. . .
heart's treason, scars. Posthumous traces
you'll replicate later - when no one's left.
Soul. . . death will bear your disgraces.
Friend. . . let this river be - raft.
Soon, soon - the deep gulf will displace us. And
the night air is soft.
("the pioneers" refers to a little group called the Poetry Mission, who were setting up some readings & an archive at the Hall Public Library in Cranston, down the road from Ted Berrigan's childhood home. Speaking of whom. . . in another form. . .)