Werner Herzog

You do not move mountains with money

you move mountains with faith.

Nobody would dare to move a ship over a mountain.

The driver wears a laurel coat.

He is the supreme overtone director.

He corrects the tiny movements

of your telephonic arms. In your mild crybaby winter

engagement of the past, you remember forestry.

You remember turtles filled with plastic. A great machine

has the potential you always knew

it had. The birds swing sideways

over the once and again great land. Shame,

the driver’s continual relation. He is never found

hiding in the spaghetti squash patch, where you think

it would be usual to ever be found. He is

never there to begin with. The patchwork and honey

carry inside a great number, and you

carry on in the shadow of that great number,

driven hard over this river of sand.

Wolf Party

I picked the red shirt.

I picked the greatest quick gray brains

out from the punch bowl.

Where were our feelings

headed off too? The great city by the river

gave up a headache, the ladies

said the glitter was fantastic.

That’s hardly fair. It’s very hard

running in and out the doors,

repeatedly, with this much drink

dissolving in the pit of one’s palms.

I meant to say maps.

Everything mouthed was starry-residual.

I picked the red shirt and

she arrived, doily and lemon full, fanged.

Fowl murder on the quad before dawn.

I picked up the . . . our very best very best.

We carved the tunnel, carved it in our names.