My heart became a drunken runt
on the day I sunk in this shunt,

to tap me clean
of all the wonder
and the sorrow I have seen,

since I left my home:

My home, on the old Milk Lake,

where the darkness does fall so fast,
it feels like some kind of mistake
(just like they told you it would;

just like the Tulgeywood).

When I came into my land,

I did not understand:
neither dry rot, nor the burn pile,
nor the bark-beetle, nor the dry well,

nor the black bear.

But there is another,

who is a little older.
When I broke my bone,
he carried me up from the riverside.


To spend my life
in spitting-distance

of the love that I have known,
I must stay here, in an endless eventide.


And if you come and see me,
you will upset the order.
You cannot come and see me,

for I set myself apart.
But when you come and see me,
in California,

you cross the border of my heart.

Well, I have sown untidy furrows

across my soul,
but I am still a coward,
content to see my garden grow

so sweet & full
of someone else's flowers.


But sometimes
I can almost feel the power.
Sometimes I am so in love with you

(like a little clock
that trembles on the edge of the hour,
only ever calling out "Cuckoo, cuckoo").


When I called you,
you, little one,

in a bad way,
did you love me?
Do you spite me?

and rise to meet you rightly.
While, moving across my land,
brandishing themselves

like a burning branch,
advance the tallow-colored,
walleyed deer,

quiet as gondoliers,
while I wait all night, for you,
in California,

watching the fox pick off my goldfish
from their sorry, golden state--
and I am no longer

afraid of anything, save
the life that, here, awaits.


I don't belong to anyone.
My heart is heavy as an oil drum.
I don't want to be alone.

My heart is yellow as an ear of corn,
and I have torn my soul apart, from
pulling artlessly with fool commands.

Some nights

I just never go to sleep at all,
and I stand,
shaking in my doorway like a sentinel,
all alone,
bracing like the bow upon a ship,

and fully abandoning
any thought of anywhere
but home,
my home.
Sometimes I can almost feel the power.

And I do love you.
Is it only timing,
that has made it such a dark hour,
only ever chiming out,
"Cuckoo, cuckoo"?


My heart, I wear you down, I know.
Gotta think straight,
keep a clean plate;
keep from wearing down.
If I lose my head,

just where am I going to lay it?

(For it has half-ruined me,
to be hanging around,
here, among the daphne,
looming out of the big brown;
I am native to it, but I'm overgrown.

I have choked my roots
on the earth, as rich as roe,
here,
down in California.)