Beneath a sky whose hardened violets
still chase a warm front’s temperatures along,
the mockingbird and mourning dove create

Deep in the house your Singer sang its dirge,
one more thread clipped stealthily from conscience.
Who sewed the gowns and blouses of the Fates?

So complete, the imago of consciousness,

the mosquito’s predatory whine
beauties itself in the clothing of childhood.

The quicksand builders built
against the Folly of All.
They built from ancient custom.

Along the rented sands of New York bight
used bandages and needles wash ashore.
The summer islanders are in a roar,
reduced to August in a living hell

The sunlight was like wire on the water,
that morning the ghost ship drove upriver.
The only witness was a Jersey cow.

Nothing in the nothing before dawn
but the bent screak of a crow,
hedges long naked of birds.

  “Who’s there?”
  “Manto, sir.”
  “Manto?”
  “Yes, sir. your youngest son.”

   Until we part, my reader, put
What is called reality aside.
   Instead,

          I am known
          by my heart’s green core
          as emerald.