Gravedigger of moths,
Prince of bedbugs,
Tuner of the harps of black ants,

With its gold earring and its crown of hawthorn and laurel,
The pink beast was led through the village square
By the minister’s beautiful, black-haired daughter

When I sit with Sophia at the kitchen table
It is always the same.
There is a chipped white plate of herring between us,

The wind blows yesterday’s Globe
Across Beacon Street.
Dead leaves dance

As I walked along St. Blanche Church Road
At dusk, I saw a small bird
Hovering in the air above a lamppost.