In my experience—waking
life—nothing had readied me for such an arrival.

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

The wind blows yesterday’s Globe
Across Beacon Street.
Dead leaves dance

When I sit with Sophia at the kitchen table
It is always the same.
There is a chipped white plate of herring between us,

As I walked along St. Blanche Church Road
At dusk, I saw a small bird
Hovering in the air above a lamppost.

With its gold earring and its crown of hawthorn and laurel,
The pink beast was led through the village square
By the minister’s beautiful, black-haired daughter

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,