Shadows from the spruce woods slouch down the hill,
the windmill’s crippled shadow
pierces the house, a blue fog spirits

In the living room of the trailer, the father of the woman
I love calls the family into a huddle.
Dinner is over, the charcoal is ash on the grill.

As a barrier against mosquitoes,
I pull an old sheet from the closet
and cross the yard,

Out of some toasty leaf-burrow she wallows into the cold,
following what calls her across
the icy crust of creek and up the ridge to my yard,

Kicking through woods and fields, I’d spooked several
and once stepped on a coachwhip among gravestones,
at least one garter curled like a bow

I am in a temple or maybe it’s a sweltering 
summer camp lodge type, of a room.

        Have too many cats...

steam rises under my hand
from a lovely coffee cup
cracked like the wall of an orphanage

The night has made the apple tree a scent,
A motion in my ear, as if delight
Ever so softly trembled in decline.

   O depth sufficient to desire, 
Ghostly abyss wherein perfection hides, 
   Purest effect and cause, you are 

She never knew the brittle rose would wake
    The far-off dormant egypt of its day
That she entombed; spring gave, autumn would take