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

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

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

It is all death, right from the start,
That fluttering agitation in the violins.
Even the love duet, by nightfall

But in the stippled, rose velvet
Buds of staghorn sumac, in rust-
  Bright veins of briar,

In a nearly empty off-season cafe, just across
From the row of grand Saratoga hotels, I lost faith
In the elegance of the facades fronting Congress Park,

First there was the revelation that I did not matter.
There was a kind of freedom in that.
I could stand in my office above the garage,

What does it matter where I speak from?
The dog lying breathless at my feet,
Torpid in this humid heat,

It began with the deer, dead in the water 
Just off my parents’ dock, 
And then there was a procession of horses,

As in the plays, the body was decor,
Fit embellishment to a scene
Where chance's misrule seemed to have gone as planned: