He comes to Egypt with the Crusaders. Of all the men
at the inn I'm drawn to him. Is it his eyes?
I ask with mine. He smiles and nods consent.

Where is her poplar cane? Where is the victory
of 1918? Where is the flame
of vengeance in her clouded eye?

She looked like milk.
She smelled
like vines curled with fruit.

This din and this condition. Thinking thief
who nicks and strips and skitters all away
as conscious night will dark a callow day

It’s nothing. A blue wheel blurring, and a wind
catchless, clicking at a window’s high
startless framing—a fixed, transparent eye

I lie on my back in the damp grass,
Staring at the stars’ mineral precision,
Masses of gas, bearers of dead light,

Bark of the birch, aria of the oriole, grit of the sand grain,
In the first stanza I shall attempt to confiscate your essence
And each time, you will slip through the noose of language,

Ruffle and tuck, river fabric wags doggedly towards ocean,
Heaping surface on surface, its cadence a gown.

Mrs. MacAdam who hired the waitresses
told me to buy white shoes, three metal
grommets, safety pins, hairnets, said

I don’t have to tell you. The small birds—
red and black finches, khaki banana quits—
invaded our bungalow, snatched crumbs, devoured