I don’t see my mother dancing—
in my thoughts she still trims vines
sprayed blue with copper sulfate

Each forward movement of the clouds leadens
The cupola covering the great men
A bit more. Then it explodes again

We are going to dip English backward
by its Shakespearean tresses
arcing its spine like a crescent

What remains of you beloved

                                        to haunt Self
like the tangled script of an ancient king
                speaking
across time

Because cemeteries are too pricey
I would like to be deposited on a public bench
and not in the earth

I have dreamt a dream of fulfillment, of freedom:
she was an old woman, with a face like the moon,
first full with reflection, then new and dark, and then

In Anderlecht, the Maison d'Erasme
sits in an elegant courtyard as if
withdrawn from the vulgar world—concedo

There is a tree falling in our back lot,
a willow, gigantic and scarred, with torn limbs
hanging at oblique angles, its base a tangle