The carpenter bees leave their sawdust dunes
heaped on the porch beneath the wood railing
like ancient pyramids returning to sand,
and the damn termites have taken the walls.
Things seem to take on a sudden shimmer
before vanishing: the polished black loafers
he wore yesterday, the reason for climbing
the stairs, even the names of his own children
The three pine steps
have worn soft.
The sagging runners
A blizzard, late in the season, arrives
with its sudden cannonading . . .
For ten days now, two luna moths remain
silk-winged and lavish as a double broach
pinned beneath the porch light of my cabin.
The evening light of suburban New Jersey
has in it smears of newsprint and the Khaki
shades of trench coats slung over seatbacks.
Black and polished
with light, it treads the air
beneath the arched soffits
of our house, where
The human tongue, in disbelief, obsesses
at the tender pit of a tooth,
When finally Solomon would drop,
heavy as a scuba diver from a boat,
into sleep, the table fan keeping quiet
sentry over his body, he could dream,
A lemon clip-on earring knocks
against the fat and perfumed cheek
of the Jamaican orderly
leaning in to change the soiled sheets.