No more lilies under tungsten
to align a dead end run–
wild with river trap–with the fount,
& no hand to cut the grass.
Three cars bloom lithrum
of his work beside an axe handle
he strung once before meeting Him
behind the whetting shed
Who drove him from despair
& made him sing with song
all know as One,
& his geese a scrawny wealth
of sorts I’d see spent the morning
by the curve, & goats. . .
that do caper still despite the
rowhouses & walks.
Now the woodpile is a ghost
wracked by winter’s slow burn,
overstocked, undercut, lost
in rank orange day glow.
I hear trucks deafen the falls,
& you, a chord rises westward
as a saw clears a cheap grave