It rests on tiny roots, a vision of angles,
And lives long.

It has no passion for gossip and little need for the usual,

There is no longer just the knife, a bundle
                of sticks, and a pot with fire.
            Other things have made their appearance.

I'd seen him scuttling under a parked car
In the oil-stained side street near the auto shop,
Or peering from beneath the juniper bush

I am trying on an especially evil-looking pair of shoes
when the shopgirl points to the middle of her face and says,

"This is called what?" For a moment I draw a blank as I search

A cloche in plum,
In lion marigold,
Or mannish toques; a Borsalino. Bring

Lost souls in Chekhov watch the fireflies emerge
from the woods, haltingly, and mope: "One day we'll know
the reason we have lived and why we have worked

Except it didn't. It went underground
as some diseases have been known to do,
returning with a vengeance in our time.

Now. And now, a tiny foot, like
a shooting star, draws an arc
inside my belly.

At sunset the mill workers convene at the tavern
talking of their children and how they bathed them in a cistern.
One man compared the evening sunset to his boy's letter

I make this line
my beast
of claw of tooth