This New England kind of love reminds me
of the potted chrysanthemum my husband
gave me. I cared for it faithfully,

Up the mountain again three years later,
rocking forward like a burro.
Breathing hard in and out.

The fête confused me. Guests played the part of gods.
There was a woman with white skin who stood
with her pale green robe open all night throwing roses.

The square stone room makes a shape in the air
to rest inside. A form for holding what is loved
beyond naming. With gratitude and reverence

The tenderness in music
brings back moments I've shared
with some who are as I am,

out to make

one bird high

above spiralling

Cragflower. Music of the sea.
         The flower still standing
in its tormented place.

All Saints’ over, the roast seeds eaten, I set
On a backporch post our sculpted pumpkin under the weather,
Warm still for November. Night and day it gapes

You could feel a passion for invisibility: to be a fly on the wall,
the pitcher's ear, the child in the corner
with his eyes closed: you could grow fat on that, full of years.

Righted, they would form
a somnambulistic stance in the
stoop-shouldered dark; shuffling
in the absence of skin stretched