clink, utters the mast, then clink again again clink phieeew the wigeon not-quite-sings to the lapping waterblanket
the wigeon has troubled the immodest sky the immodest stillness of the sky
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Something sent him. Arriving, he must be received,
With grace, with gentle grace,
As gentle as the sound he makes,
The sound with which he touches my not yet sleeping soul.
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Ascending Dot, I knew your Grandfather.
He went from beetle strength to beetle strength
(strength is the sword he bears, the mailed garb
the stone-faced no-face). Late, the driveway was
a murdering meadow where he crept, and lived.
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A blindfold hued the eggshell of her dress:
Some hands held heads, fresh-washed with many tears…
For she was six and ten, no more, no less.
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