In the evening
haze darkening on the hills,
purple

Possibly a child is not damaged immediately
but only after some time has passed.
When the parent who sits on the edge

Through a dark winter 
In a cold chambre de bonne 
I lay still and dreamt

We walk across the snow,
The stars can be faint,
The moon can be eating itself out,

A tiny creature moves
through the tide pool, holding up
its little fortress foretelling

Not frequent, the monitors of doomed pastoral
admit these native moths their autumn rising

after a sleepy eviscerated summer, stubble
suddenly alive with beakiness, and then and then . . .