The earth locks up the truth about life
even though the blood tells moody lies
when, like the smooth afternoon sea,

In the hollow provided he beaches his canoe, fastens it to a willow, then walks into the village. He finds there a classmate from his old alma mater, goes out drinking, comes back late.

The German fellow comes when I least suspect him. He appears hanging around. He walks down my chimney, settles on a footstool, talks about the weather.

Tom peers from his tent.
The enemy is barely visible.

Aloof, Tom planted the Garden.
Peas spring up there, he ordered;
tiny green arcs cracked the soil.

Mealtimes are reminders, says Tom,
of a beautiful marriage
between the organic and the mineral.

When we lift up the cover:
a brisk wind of bees.

My thick hands tripped and stumbled
over the deviant keys,
my sour stomach off-key,

For a long time, a huge
ragweed has been standing
in the flowers

In fact, my hand is not a hand
but a whole house, and there is no time
but a thick, reluctant river