<tate's "the delicate riders"> 2006-08-16.2:30 p.m. The Delicate Riders James Tate I hang my head on the furniture van abandoned alongside an arcaded palace; alas my woman is the brand of goose that cruises through cemeteries breaking the periscopes off graves. I hear a laugh swim up from the part of myself I've killed: those moons will be there when I can't even walk. I know the squalor of night to night survival, like the lock of hair in a dead man's palm. I place a hanky over this dream and wish a trampoline over her mother's village. The trees with their long red hair dressed in sudden rain wave a sigh to me-- aphasia smile, belladonna kiss: another motionless voyage. I'll sit down now and drill a little hole through this dawnlessness. back /& forth /& frosting names are often sad