My mother, who opened my eyes, who
brought me into the terrible world,
was guilty. Her look apologized:

But no wind and I, under the constant chaos of that dark,
hung on the ledge of my love like a dragonfly.

There would be no more than this,
the quiet, grim grace of the spruce
and the far snow-wash trickling down

I can feel the sheet luff on my thighs, the emptiness
cool and pleasant inside my body, and time
stops counting the spruce limbs.

At dawn, from the bedroom window: the elm tree’s shadow
white with frost. Brief, strange sight; when I returned
with coffee for my wife, the lawn was green again.

I’ve seen the candles you carried
going out, one by one,
in the darkness of deep woods.

the bird falls, but
not killed by the copper bead,
only wounded and fluttering;

Where each drop of blood
struck: lips in the dirt.

The thick-walled room’s cave-darkness,
cool in summer, soothes
by saying, This is the truth, not the taut

You bring the Red Devil back fast,
left wrist whirling in the circle
as the line fills the spool—