Aurelian,
                  who studies the emergence of butterflies
from chrysalides,

The heart under your heart
                  is not the one you share
so readily o full of pleasantry

Tonight I hear machines at their dark work in the dark, I understand 
the sound they make among the gaps between the trees 

Everything is fine—
the first bits of sun are on
the yellow flowers behind the low wall,

Such jazzy arrhythmia, the white storks’
Plosive and gorgeous leave-takings suggest
Oracular utterance where the blurred

Moving away from rattled towns,
gaining, as a bird in a dishwasher,
an altered view, the owlish lakefronts

Any tree would seem to grieve,
what with the hawk lonelinessing
on her desiccated perch.

His flesh is singular, like water,
His feeling anchored in a deep pool.

Here in the open, love lies apart,
singing to its beads. How reflective is that?