Call it swimming, an afternoon
like this, and wading:
this warming breeze.
The inner square of Ithaca
swept hush, while at its
shore, the terns make
what they make of spring, so early
and itself alone. Divorced
of frost to usher in
the bleating of this year,
evocative of flower storms
that near. They carry in
this breeze on backs, the terns,
to flood this square, its air, like blood.
No difference now,
this outside and what’s not.
red bowl of pale sun
universe of black, a hole for watching
stars and nothing else
once was, a white pulled from a blue pail,
the gowns of angel’s sky
young woods in snow, the heart of saplings — green.
affairs with grapevine on the sail
the rippling of the sky, a red bowl of pale sun spilled,
on the hill opposing, missing,
the deep den in the bare field.
(a poem to commemorate fall)
maple trees not maples
honey
what you want don’t grow
on money
birches birches barches oh!
underneath a slug doth grow
staghorn stagborn stag
alone
burgundy-red to make
you moan
oak fest steady, hold a fast
strings to tether fall to last
elm tree elm see, each has
one
each the same in eyes
of sun
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