little moth I do not think you'll escape this night I do not think you'll escape this night little moth * bees in clover summer half over friends without lovers * I bite a carrot horsefly bites me * I thought it was you moving through the trees but it was the trees I thought it was your finger grazing my knee it was the breeze I thought prayers were rising to a god alive in my mind they rose on the wind I thought I had all the time and world enough to discover what I should when it was over I thought I would always be young though I knew the years passed and knowing turned my hair gray I thought it was a welcome what I took for a sign— the sun...the unsymboling sun... * watch the clouds on any given day even they don't keep their shape for more than a minute sociable shifters bringing weather from elsewhere until it's our weather and we say now it's raining here * Vermont shore lit by a fugitive sun who doesn't believe in a day's redemption * sunset renovation at the expected hour but the actual palette still a surprise * gulls alit on the lake little white splendors looking to shit on the dock * little cat kneading my chest milkless breasts take your pleasure where you can * not that I was alive but that we were
If we belonged to the dead, if we had our own Egyptian culture of care— the amulets of home entombed for solace everywhere— would we then have found a better way to cast beyond the merely given earth? If you want to follow me you'd better leave your plaid suitcase and makeup kit behind. I hope you won't mind the narrow corridor; the air in the chamber's thinned out. In this dark I think my life's an old hinge creaking in silence. Open the door and you'll see the creatures I imagined while you were waiting: the green-eyed dog upright on his throne, the winged lion, the woman whose third eye brightens the room. She's the grinding lapis to paint the veins of her breast. Her nipples are coated with gold. It's true they rarely speak but you're welcome to ask their names. Most days they lie and dream among the harps. They suffice for themselves, neither giving nor receiving. See how they wither in the momentary glance, turn to dust on the steps we climbed to get here.