This place, a living palace of comforts and solitudes,
Which yet describes for me an arc,
somewhere beginning, nowhere ending,
which I suppose is my story to follow.
As yours is of the fine lines, antique modes, steam,
The geological disaster. And his is
Of the curved city, the expression of pleasant surprise,
The wheel, locomotion.
These stories, hard as stones to compare,
Our vagrant paths northward, and the threat
Or gain of that fiendish move south.
To know names, I am taught. To be caught
In wheat fields, touching each stalk, calling it by name.
To stand on a city corner, to wait
In a city of peeling paint,
Okay, for me this one needs some very particular help. I know the enjambment is key here–where the lines end, how long they are, how consistent they are in length, how varied they are in purpose–but I have too many totally different ideas to post them all. I’m looking for suggestions, radical or otherwise.
Finally, some good news: