From the frank rendering of the sock
to the foot and the hem released
of its fold, with scent marking

Ah, to be old and rage uncontrollably,
to command the sun and moon to stop
and yet be treated like a dog,

At bottom, a drowned harvester.
Sure as the spent soap slick
across the pool’s deep side.

Where they sell greeting cards for jail
and use cops to keep us in
who’ve already been “in,” where we write:

              A worm
inside this one, he says.

Books say parents
didn’t mourn their children

At dusklight she slips
into acetate underclothing,
all rustling.

                                                and I started again
with a smell, not yet a memory, earth beginning
   to drink from tiny roots in my head’s dark garden

The children marvel at it and the adults are proud of it.

N    ot a flower that flares and falters
I    s lost when the angel of night appears