From the Fishouse

Psychology takes the fun
out of everything, and infinity
can only be fathomed
as infinite boredom
or infinite loss.
Physics, which we used to trust,
fails us altogether when the number 8
turned on its side
turns out to be merely sleeping—
rises up like a cow in a field,
a cow with surprising vigor.

His hand tangles in my hair
as the train passes,
and in that blur of sound and light
things are settled by a force
outside ourselves,
as we had hoped would happen.
In the afternoon,
the green plums hang invisible
on the green tree. At night they glow
with a powdery green light of their own—
sour enough to last a while,
sour enough, surely.