as she lies there, her flesh cooling, on a table,
what blush easing the furniture of her body
toward the invisibility in a mirror

I remember erecting a screened-in porch
for a house I lived in, the staple gun
all afternoon like a giant mosquito

Deep in the house your Singer sang its dirge,
one more thread clipped stealthily from conscience.
Who sewed the gowns and blouses of the Fates?

Those heavy, drowned-washrag, still moonless nights
our hands would test the blindness of our faces,
tourists scratching their names on marble columns

The palms looked wary even in broad afternoon,
thin women in fancy ribbed hats.
Beyond them the hooded sweep of the St. Johns

See how the god mounts her powerful back
and clasps the warrior thighs in his great loins,
smelling of dung and wild carrots. Rejoice

Through the veiled hush of the nut garden, God
was walking in the cool of the day; He
felt like talking again to a mortal

For today at least the snow has gone
and the backyard is awash with daffodils.
See how the sun has come to court you? Quick,

It is hard to think of the people of Thebes
as being fortunate (so much time has gone by),
but they possessed a machine of exact measure:

These are those same trees you saw six months ago.
I’ve drawn them in a way that will explain
Not only their nature, but the nature of snow,