Poem Called Margaret

     —You are she who is not.

Some month that summer there became a beach ball in the garden.
Wedged, it were

between the teeth of the fence and the trunk
of an elder sunflower, it repeated

the season, a melon of seeds, the
failing flowering

hydrangea. It

was a thing. And the thing was
not feeling, but the boding

of a body
of an inkling      (O

all my little 
                                                    pen marks)