Never lonelier than in August: 
hour of plenitude—in the country 
the red and golden tassels, 

Rowans—not yet fully rowan red 
not yet in that tone they take on later 
of ember, berry, October, and death. 

I  

O that we might be our ancestors’ ancestors. 
A clump of slime in a warm bog. 
Life and death, fertilizing and parturition 

       the baby, name lost. 1906. Spring born,
almond and blackthorn in bloom. Meadowsweet,
chickweed, petals of milk on her lips.

Spider-silk saliva from mouth to crab apple fists,
on Mother’s lap, the train from Kiev to Minsk
after the last harvest in Tiegenort.

Standing on the platform, Manchester Victoria,
waiting for the after-supper train. Home,
to Glasgow.

        Luke 19:11

Wheat threshed, casks of cherries, plums,
boiled melon, beef tallow, pig bladders blown
and tossed by children, mothers stirring stock,
kidneys, hearts pressed with aspic,

casings scraped and stuffed, allspice, cloves.
Fields bare, packed clay, porcelain sheen,
the long winter sleep. In my dream,
I wake and the village is empty,

So hot the shore we drove through four states
to reach stays dazed a skipping-stone’s throw 
beyond the window, though the tide creeps out,

From tiny up, a grand jeté to a slow freight
was basic movement, or losing a footrace allegro
to neighborhood punks. And to fast-talk my way

The bright green bulbs of apples crop up overnight.
I didn’t dream their soggy thup on the lawn
or the tree’s tarnished sconces for those home-grown bulbs
that dawn kindles, then eclipses.

I sit on the toilet with you.
I criticize your wardrobe when you’re looking okay