Something isn’t right with me. 
We climb in the hot July 
car three thousand feet from Laramie 

The children play at the Luxembourg fountain.
Their small ships catching wind and sail out and come round again.

I thought (and before it was too late) 
my heart had begun to turn, that was 
shut to love, for I was adamant 

Oh I have felt these same 
yearnings in myself— 
the tiny dark and yellow 

At the end of October a mallard
came down
                to the lake’s edge