Child-crafted clouds, all sheen and fleece and curlicues,
as a girl, with her tongue in her teeth, would have made them,
the point of her crayon squashed against the page.

For the raindrop, joy is in entering the river—
Unbearable pain becomes its own cure.

Travel far enough into sorrow, tears turn to sighing;

I’m at a double wake
in Springfield, for a childhood
friend and his father

I can summon them
(sometimes I can)

Outside the leaves are quiet
as their shadows. Hidden
in the leaves a bird is waiting

light that shines not
on, but from the
earth—

Something draws me to you the tug of experience
In the emporium of your remembered taste and touch.

Look at the eyes, burnished black beads
and the sharp yellow of the beak and inside

One fist made I lower my sights
to the left hand the sinister one. I count
now the misfortunes of my neighbour.

And Neptune the king of the mists
out there beyond the reaching finger of Jesus.