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.

I slam Earth again and again,
                and again and again. Not as

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

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

To look at them, you might not think the two men, having spoken briefly 
                and now moving away from each other, as different goals 
                require, have much history, if any,