My daughter screams: I don't believe in  t h i s  God.
I don t believe in an God.
And she escapes into tears over Kafka's Castle.

In the dun-colored sky
A cloud even more dun-colored
With the black outline of the sun.

The town’s southeastern edge.
Tolbiac Bridge down there.
Endless freight terminal.

Virginal decorations.
The pain of countless upside-down candles.

Vegetables embody overlooked power. Think of your mother
standing over you when you wouldn’t eat spinach
and Bush turning his back on bouquets of broccoli.

She helps her son detach the kneecap from the leg
and wash it in the stream.

Where do you come from?      Where did you grow?     Your leaving
brought you here     To the nest at the center of your home     Where
have you flown?     Your lowered gze at the center of your home     Where

Cultivating people can be arduous, 
With results as uncertain as weather. 
Try oysters, meerkats, turnips, mice. 

Sublimation, a new version of piety.
Hovers the paint and gets her going.
Everything drifts, a barely heard sigh is the

I stood by the dark barn and called 
and called to her by name, 
into the labyrinth of stalls