Up the mountain again three years later,
rocking forward like a burro.
Breathing hard in and out.

The woman is preparing her body for sleep.
She hangs the hair forward
and it almost touches her feet.

As long as I struggle to float above the ground
and fail, there is reason for this poetry.
On the stone back of the Ludovici throne, Venus

This New England kind of love reminds me
of the potted chrysanthemum my husband
gave me. I cared for it faithfully,

The square stone room makes a shape in the air
to rest inside. A form for holding what is loved
beyond naming. With gratitude and reverence

In this palace which is said to be
a replica of heaven

Even at night I go out with a light and look
at the growing. I kneel and look at one thing
at a time. A white spider on a peony bud.

Moon is hobbled and placed in a field.
Listens to cicadas and watches the cripple
walk to the restaurants to play his bagpipe

Then a man comes easily through the trees
with some urgent duty, like Hermes with his orders
memorized. He is fearsome because he does not care

Beyond the mountain is a meadow with iris.
The shade of the firs determines the measure
of their color. Violet so pale the purple

The fête confused me. Guests played the part of gods.
There was a woman with white skin who stood
with her pale green robe open all night throwing roses.