For a moment, the sun
on a red barn, dying,
on dry fields still as a gold death-mask
warmed yellow only to the eye
like a fruit
holding my eye
she undoes her blouse
my strict attention
What they left behind them
are the stone fences.
Slats of clear gold sunlight
and snow like fur on every branch
and every branch after branch after branch
as far as thought can reach...
Quite suddenly, full blown,
out of the chubby cheeks of an infant wind,
a leaf landed on a mud-puddle,
like a strange, crude vessel launched
flecked by moon made mica.
Cold, windless air—even
The red pulse of three turn signals and the click of my own
—a serial music, more for the eye than the ear.
Images of unseen birds sweep the rear window of the car ahead,
Unable to sleep
I stand at the northeast window. A pond
back dropped by five spruces
A disc the yellow of old ivory, and then,
for the first time in a life oblivious,
it comes into focus, the face of the man