A watch. An old one used to hanging from the black silver satin pocket of a grandfather, swinging when he walked.

All day I have written words:
My subject has been that. Words. 
And I am wrong. And the words.

  A daffodil from Emily’s lot
I lay beside her headstone
on the first day of May.

Death invited to break its horns
on the spread
cloth. To drop its head

January 29th

Black-white-black the flock of scaup
pushing hard against whittles of the tide.

The point of clothes was line,
a shallow fall of cotton over childish hips
or a coat ruled sharp, shoulder to hem

I walk along the length of a stone and gravel garden
and feel without looking how the fifteen stones
appear and disappear. I had not expected the space

A musician tumbles bicycle handlebars
  on a sidewalk and makes jangling music;
a gardener prunes branches, then shakes
  the Japanese maple to drop a few

As an archaeologist unearths a mask with opercular teeth
and abalone eyes, someone throws a broken fan and extension cords
into a dumpster. A point of coincidence exists in the mind

A melody played on the piano with five black keys. I heard it, walking across
packed snow and ice with microspikes under my shoes.