Tim Keane praise dusk when that rare drifting clod tastes like sugar and the oak’s champagne branches carve round brown troughs for milk when my skin smells of the pocked field’s muddy cadences—its song, its chord, its strum praise the bridge-tower that slopes over the blond shoulder of a runner as the pale blue struts are hammered by a choir Tim Keane is a poet living in New York City. His collection, Alphabets of Elsewhere, was...