A poem Jack Spicer & I wrote together to commemorate April 1, 1955 (exactly a month before I was born) 

 You only have the right to piss in the fountain
 If you are beautiful (April 1, 1955)

It's me at the back of a wet pink caul, sad-eyed as Jack
     but full of  tricks. Today

 The lights are out

And shinnying up the rusty laundry pole to build a sun,
     over baywater

 Believe the birds

I try to the topmost of sky to be crow & upend the twig.
     Waters between us

 Time does not finish a poem

Crows always slacken like that, a little, and tear for the
     salmon-eyed kid

 The sounds there, offshore, faint and short