They burned our witch last Tuesday, so sad
to watch her go up like a puff of smoke,
the pale ash excited into air

Urging our oxen toward the risen sun,
our stick plows stirring up the dust in waves,
also, in waves, we taste those words come back,

Of course,all day long it’s Gilgamesh wants
this, Gilgamesh wants that, and we scatter
through the city, beating ploughshares into

in Gila Bend, Arizona, all’s gone still
with his death, the entire satellite base
draped in black garlands, even the old

    Every time the door opens,
the mother bird flies off. What's left
    slumps and pulses. I determine

Aphra Behn is not wearing all her clothes 
in some part of South America nobody knows. 
Everyone is polite, and not. Maybe she left off 

The jay streaks through the lilacs
              in color clash.
I note down: Invent
     outdoor birdswing

From the frank rendering of the sock
to the foot and the hem released
of its fold, with scent marking

Ah, to be old and rage uncontrollably,
to command the sun and moon to stop
and yet be treated like a dog,

At dusklight she slips
into acetate underclothing,
all rustling.