These junipers growing out from the yellow rocks
   now in the sunlight near the top of the steep slope
under its split cliff face and these dwarf oaks returning

You with a muse of your own
in the old gallery
that profile of grave beauty

But there is only one of you
they say as though they knew
and it may even be true

The sun was touching the wet black shoulders of olives
in a chipped dish descended from another century
on that day I remember more than half my life ago

You who waited here before me
in silence mothers of silence
I always knew you were present

You have been evoked so often
like some relative in office
whom we have heard of by name

Look at you bringing 
Your children up just as formerly 
And look at me back again 

He begins by troubling your
thoughts, the egg white you drop
into a glass makes the shape of a

I have held the man in my mouth
all day, trying to find a place
to bury him, dig him up later.

A sentence is hard for a sudden         to spin into space.

See the hand perch on to fish out on the limb so to speak?

It’s not to place but the verge of,