So that all day he’s stared the mountain down
its myth of windowsill, followed by, live, sight
of an oak shaking as a fever into leaf, alone

Tired of the tally of give and take,
until (worth it at last) I found your store
past the nickle and diming phases of dance.

 …Then you must take up your well-shaped oar and go on,
      I said, and I admit he took it well,
      hampered as he was by my kind of sight.

It’s slippery, the little by little you’re left with.
thread of a peacock in profile
glimpsed on a chimney,