Addressed to Emily (from July) :

 And if nine muses in July slipped
 downstream toward a swollen, stolen
 summa... it were a felix loss
 for Caesar's breastplate - broken jewel,

  
 cool dove, stone sister - moosed-over
 mossy garnet in a woodland of
 autumnal jasper.  Duels
 of August - golden - over now -

  
 are nevermore.  Veteran stone,
 an Inca sacrifice - a frozen child,
 limed over, liminal (ditched
 first-born son, whose knot

  
 entwines the ceremonial sword
 like twine around a strong man's
 house - holds it for a host
 of Jacobean thieves) turned

  
 gypsy roost now, camel-humped,
 bull-dragged and wobbly, a
 knife-line violin, the last bow
 of your father's father's ho-hum 

         
 poem...  finished.  Built.  Where  
 the river flows both ways around
 your coracle's felt node (or
 upside-dome).  So row

  
 some more, toward summer -
 toward hurtling chords of warmer
 wind.  For the grasslands of your
 mini-Rome are no more rusted

  
 than busted us (trust me on this).
 Understand, we stand in good here
 for the minor coppers who dug
 her out of the lincoln logs - Scythians

  
 with charlie horses carved into their
 knobby, needy, bowlegged errors -
 still, they hit the bell's aye - rose.  And
 this is a drawing-out of thundering wraiths.


      
                             11.13.99

(full excerpt here)