The movement of my body when I wake,
Hinge of my arm, the shift of hand and throat,
Reminds me there was something for your sake

Wrapped like a sprained ankle from head to toe,
                                                                                 locked in glass
In an inconceivable country.

In the unshaded hill
where you kill
every day I have climbed

Saturday. Early afternoon. High
Spring light through new green,
                                         a language, it seems, I have forgotten,

light that shines not
on, but from the
earth—

  Jane Lee told me that in Maine she met a little boy who
insisted that in his family they had green blood in their veins.

I can summon them
(sometimes I can)

In the name of one more leavening
I hoist the flag, the closed eye
of the letter B in cursive here.

The way we made sure the entire tree glowed with
only blue lights you’d think we were calculating
the atmosphere. This was our time to be sad,

 Bridle and martingale,
the crupper’s strap and buckle,

hobble and tassel binds