Issue 128, Fall 1993
It was important on this April night
to open the windows, all of them, east
and on the west, pushing the panes
as high as they would go, to allow
the wind free passage through the rooms,
to allow the night occupancy
as if it were a word come into the body
to render the bones definitive.
And the house became the spring
night—the hallway a vernal hallway
rushed with flowing field grasses, all
the tugs and crescents of sex-in-flight.
The wooden casements, railings and rungs,
were carved, their curves traced,
by the calls of peepers, crickets,
killdeer, those cries possessing
every mirror too, in and out, like streaks
and bells of light. Quilts and counterpanes
became shadowed with yellow-budded willow
and lilac priorities, like patterns
laid out, wound and stitched fast.
In the dark, a garden of grape,
honeysuckle and rosmarin took root,
spreading, blooming, vining a leafy
network through the bedroom mid-air.