As long as I struggle to float above the ground
and fail, there is reason for this poetry.
On the stone back of the Ludovici throne, Venus

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.