We'll go more steeply into the dark,
& travel down under the moss & the dead
leaves     & go under shadows     of
daylight savings, as November comes on.

We'll go toward sleep, my thrush, my sleepyhead
& hear the mutter of an undertow
across pebbles, & mournful puddingstone;
we'll roll, black one, toward your lonely mark.

We'll follow the ghost dance through hedgerows,
& wear rotten pumpkins for crowns
on the last night. We'll light a little spark
& watch it fade over lead-gray fields.

We'll wait until our hearts are already heavy & full.
& then we'll lower the pail, slowly, into your well.

Henry Gould | Island Road 13
Contents | Mudlark No. 6