A cup before coffee, a shell
  after the scrambled egg,
I am a big nothing

This hill and the old house on it
are all we have. Two acres,
more or less—half crabby lawn,

And, after the explosion, made spheres sing,
A pure expression of pure poetry,
Like rising rain or a nation with no

Perpetual peace. Perpetual light.
From a distance it all seems graffiti.
Gold on gold. Iridescent, torqued phosphors.

Music for when the music is over
Is what a poem is. There’s no music
In a poem, just the imaginary

The barn is warm, come inside, lie down,
sleep. Here, no sheep ever fails

The red dress twisted under her is the last of
her mother’s history. You want to keep her
always. Every noon you carry her from the house

Paula did it so others in the office—
who lunch at The Olive Garden together,
don't include her—won't think she is
a loser. On her desktop, it pulsates.

The friend hugs you a little longer than usual and winks.
"Andrew was not the Brother of the Lord," he says,
and you wonder just who is the lord in this story. Who is

 Gesturing toward the master bedroom suite,
"Solid cherry wood!" Mother said grandly.
Two bureaus, two mirrors, four-poster bed,