Maidenhair borders the upward trail,
trims the margin braided green
and lives here—thrives—in the dark
beneath these arches, in this

They faced each other on the oval knoll
and drew in the dirt the face they sat across from,
first with a finger and again with a stick

I will not give in. I will grow more strange.
I will wrap myself around your ghost till the ghost
itself wants letting go, till it shimmers free.

He jettisoned our aspersions with sailing gestures ,
sucking clean the invidious indifference,
spitting unethical sounds that pealed the spirit,

I would enquire of you
The Slinger leaning forward askt
One of the 4 Great Questions

The darkness rings.
                                    the surface from
              of the face, a halo

             My stepfather stood on the corner
by the national bank, quiet

When I heard he had entered the harbor,
and circled the wharf for days,
I expected the worst: shallow water,

It is Sunday, day of roughhousing. We are let out in the woods. The young boys wrestle and butt their heads together like sheep—a circle forms; claps and shouts fill the air. The women, brown and glossy, gather round the banjo player, or simply lie in the sun, legs and aprons folded.

On the radio a canary bewailed her luck
while the county outside was kicking with rain.