Michael Joseph Walsh from A Season And if you kept it in     (To call the room to it)     As when the previous day’s events endeared release—           It is perhaps my failure.               It is perhaps all I remember. Unwavering brattle the bird of every tempest     That as no word had ever holds familiar in all directions. That ugliness, stone by stone, one’s former body lisped     And sputtered As if it had actually appeared Holding on screaming as the train hoots     Hoot hoot remarkable to hold up empty space     In a day this cold, so smooth and unworried In the blue and red of radiant light     Where I go on eating, drinking, chewing     Where I knock the back of my hand against a stone     And call it stability, stability, Even then     To ask O yes what truth what else     Without light is drunk or squeezed     Into amiable life, a few words In the morning’s stiff     Neck mouthed in earshot     Rising to the surface     Of the mind a voice speaking not to me But to the agony of birth     Of constant anticipation     Of no day or night I can account for     Called cold, unlike others, called ash And dirty snow     Feeling ripe for something, as of the lips     A certain opening     Where the human part of dream sinks into risk.