Gravedigger of moths,
Prince of bedbugs,
Tuner of the harps of black ants,

Here there are small animals 
foraging and content
Perhaps this is what’s called 

At sunset the mill workers convene at the tavern
talking of their children and how they bathed them in a cistern.
One man compared the evening sunset to his boy's letter

I want color to braid,
to bleed, want song 
to fly to flex to think

A field sparrow 
is at my window, 
tapping at its reflection, 

The winter sun says fight.
The arctic blasts say fight.
This polar world is flat

Now. And now, a tiny foot, like
a shooting star, draws an arc
inside my belly.

I had been searching the hill for a vision.
And unabashed as if waiting he came into sight.

always another moment
drawing back

The water tower poses a challenge. Against
   the shadows of the sky are planes of light.
There seems to be no touching, but actually