TWO POEMS FOR BILL SYLVESTER GENE FRUMKIN Entrance victims dissolve what can alternate suggestions within the horseshoe pit. Otherwise elementary cognates take me back as a child pitching near the firehouse. Old Ed Goff still had the plausability of one who picked corn in Iowa crops, now past in the California town where indulgent surfaces were supposed to qualify health. The firemen hardly consumed what heroism was available. Later comic angels capsized down the slide, occupying enormous energy in pratfalls. Rochambeau. If that was his name, scratched his back with the wrong end of a flyswatter. He lived with us for a month, if that. While his stolen rib healed of its vacancy. The rib wounded us in that high, natural town. A porch in summer, the obsolete talk under a single star reliving an instant we couldn't imagine.