You spoiled something back there at the beginning,
a vowel, a syllable, a word,
and the poem’s inedible now,

—Yes, my friend, making my grave rounds. Our mother’s there,
my brother too, and the wife’s niece, buried last year,
   only seventeen, leukemia, it seems. And you, sir?

I don’t see my mother dancing—
in my thoughts she still trims vines
sprayed blue with copper sulfate

The town’s southeastern edge.
Tolbiac Bridge down there.
Endless freight terminal.

Once to wake proud in a burst of sunlight
as bearing news of real significance,
to risk cold coffee for this native hour