On the chine of the first white inkling of the winter
The Ravenmaster wraps his limbs in combs of wind.

It is November; the tower closes down

On her way to the Louisiana State Penitentiary, Sister Mary Aloysius 
Drove past many signs: Earthworms Here. Have Many Rabbit. Calicos 
In Burlap Sacks for Free. There were wooden crosses, some upsided

Winter was the ravaging in the scarified
Ghost garden, a freak of letters crossing down a rare

Path bleak with poplars. The yew were a crewel

I was not ready for your form to be cold
Ever. Even in life

You did not inhabit, necessarily, a form,

The orchard grew excellent,
Good mass of apples assembling, one angel burned, looped
On the wire fence, in a bowl of gold most satisfactory.

“Have a lot of folks over for dinner and walk”
Thus spoke Gertrude Stein bellyaching about Manhood.

Fashionable windiness to gear sworn statements into hungry keys

Back at San Francisco Greyhound, leaning / and I’m not thinking or yearning / I’m just leaning.

Lie facedown in the pulsating mantra:
                                         dried flowers bathed in sunshine
Of slowly submerging monograms