The ritual of the poem in praise of you
demands the vision of a goddess   an ap-

He is a delicate flower indeed
talk of the princess and the pea

The hemlocks, a wood nymph approaches
Walking her two small dogs.

They call me Jack Jigger because
I'm entirely made of little pieces
Taken from other people (some are

She is lovely, Victorian, her auburn hair, upswept,
held by tortoise-shell pins and silver combs;

Loss of names is a kind of leakage
but there is another: the actual scale

She dallies now in plots
but feels a longing for dispersal

Thunder blooms unevenly in unknowable places,
breaking distances into startling new chambers

From where I stood on the bridge
I could see the moon, flapping on water, unable to escape.

Roll me in protective layers
of yourself, wool scarves.
Take me out in the snow.