It was Thursday the 11th. First day of my summer job. My summer job was to read books on the sun-flooded weathered green grandstands in Heywood Park. To celebrate a season passing, to be joyful with busy comical crows accenting endless sentences of trucks and cars, to whose drivers "a little piece of Eden's torn dress" is ejectus in viam--hurry past!

To acknowledge millions of singing birds in oak-carriages, chestnut-frames, grand piano trees that grow "luxuriantly... extravagantly... disorderly," all over this city. To let the warm sun not withhold, as in the human psyche, whatever ozone holes or desert massacres to clear a space, the silver spoon's back to crack Humpty1, whatever starvation or cholera where water seethes new varieties of boiling excrement secreted from industrial machine to earth-life organ, where human laborers are excreta too, another form of toxic waste, virulent if not contained.

Was the blue sky benevolent and loving in the 1990s? Yes! I say it was. Splendid over it all and a blue sea sunsparkled and beyond tree-frames new-leafed, and rich in its interior with gull shriek, high-held curved blade of the gull's call, dry-feathered crow call, song of bark and many other bare, rough textures. That day I was given splendidness! Perhaps I earned it, whatever my work might have been. At night

The sky was a mess of meaningless beauty
Clusters of uneconomical beauty
Trees I came near to
Spoke, sotto voce,
Sometimes full roar,
Of the play of centuries

The archway of my belly,
That thick tympanum sold me that
I was too bam-damn razzled, wrestled, restless,
Jazzed by the twentieth to actually hear

The signal-to-noise of my ear-tympanums
Was far short of state of the art
Short of the pause in a laser CD,
So the trees sighed and slung

A long Shhhh, a shhh,
At midnight along the forest's edge
Where night trees caught
The diamond sutra of my self-
Indulgence and by their own full-
Bodied beauty, the consonantless

Long whispers of their eloquence
Human language could recover
For its mould, called a long form of silence
To sift the wind of endless vowels
Only breathed forever, only passing,
Leaves the cry and the consonant for me.

It was my job to call forth to this dark, damp things, scuttlers from under rocks, behind façades, house-fronts and yards I rolled past, "going for the ride." To let a beneficent action of the sun, a wide condition and connotation of the sun, and the breeze then just thickening in perfumed Spring, with Apollonian tenderness, minister to this wounded world. Let it know this by its ecstasy.