I could stay here humming

    and amuse myself with the window.

    The lowing cows you cannot see.

    Another month I made up. Another asterisk.

    How I wrestle with the newspaper

    and other people's pillows.

    How I think of Albert，

    for he is like the names of the days.

    He walks the field

    kicking a potato，

    dreaming of casinos.

    His emissaries get lost in alleyways.

    His bridges crawl with teenagers.

    The phone rings，

    the sky tilts away.

    A whole migration of Albert under the office door.

    Albert is in the Otzal Alps.

    He sends postcards saying

    getting to Albert might be difficult.

    Airplanes fly over and that is useful.

    Albert is in the estuary.

    We sit on the porch sharing a swing.

    He is as loud as a rifle， over and over.

    He clears the fields of crows.