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 am in your living room when you are not thinking of me.
I crawl in your lap, like an amphibian
just recently awakened from the sea.

Who would think it ever—
lasting? Patent, it seems, to be nothing
but what it is: one of the summering

Young, nondescript,
well, she's a little fat,
the life and fall of thick '

I'm the one who has imprisoned the rain dragon.

You know the story? About the dark-eyed girl who seduces
the holy man and ends the long drought.

No lily grows from coal, the obscene mole descends
And wends, bending ahead of pressure from his home,
Digging the window and the door, filing the floor

It seems no air or any other thing 
Pretends to help; and you, defeated now,
But visibilities, your balm and clue,