A sleepy town, one black marble hidden
in among the daffodils, the small birds crying
sharp edge of a cloud, the road appears and disappears.
Cloudy water in a blue glass in the kitchen.
A red ball in the leaves that longs to roll away,
an ancient tree, an evening dragon.
The birds are glad on their branches.
Drift of thought inside the church
of bones and vines, a small invisible sun
behind fat luminous clouds, a treasure in a buried eye
like this expensive private rain, their careful radiance
the secret music as the black comes down
the dogs join in, the lights go on
along these silver fences, faded persons
watch the moon, the earth lies quiet.
The birds begin a skinny Monday tune,
the clouds come close, they swell and furl
the man comes by to pick the trash
for a majesty unbleached or a tiny private empire
or rusty tools, old paper, insects in their armor
the last thin sweat of September
a small blue hand preserved in a jar.
Sometimes she walks around talking to bees.
The other day I saw her standing on the corner
with her arm around a crow, tiny angels
walking in the raggedy grass. Light through the blinds throws
shadow on the far wall.