"Hi, guy," said I to a robin
perched on a pole in the middle
of the garden. Pink and yellow
They are a gift I have wanted again.
Wanted: One moment in mountains
when winter got so cold
In the cubbyhole entrance to Cornell and Son,
a woman in a turquoise sweater
curls up to sleep. Her right arm seeks
"It isn't a game for girls,"
he said, grabbing a fifth
with his right hand,
the wind with his left.
I scratch earth around timpsila
on this hill, while below me,
hanging in still air, a hawk
White horses, tails high, rise from the cedar.
Smoke brings the fat crickets,
House of five fires, you never raised me.
Those nights when the throat of the furnace
wheezed and rattled its regular death,
I wanted your wide door,
Stoplights edged the licorice street with ribbon,
neon embroidering wet sidewalks. She turned
into the driveway and leaped in the dark. A blackbird