Nothing can make, make me want

to stay

in this world—

not the grass

with its head of hair

turning grey—

not the swayback horse

in the field

I swear I almost saw

start to saunter—

nor the bent shadows

late in the day

drawing close—

the neighbor’s boat

not yet docked

gathering snow

not the dream

with the moose hunched

in its crown

shedding velvet

led by a silver halter

through the shaded campground—

a shawl over its shoulders

like a caftan on a grandmother

or her rocker

whenever she’s no longer there.

Not the brass nail-heads

on the Adirondack chair

I put together, sweating,

this morning, that creaks

but still

does hold—

nor the cries of the others

above water, beloved

bright voices of summer

echoing like the ice cream man

in his whirring truck—

along the curb his lights flash

like an ambulance

playing the tune

you cannot name—yet know—

except this babbling, like a light

barely shining,

from below the baby’s cracked door.