cream of pulled pint, pulled
shot, a surface
effect. I gobble your
softnesses, oak tree; I
kiss all your branches dear beech dear
pecan! Where God becomes self-conscious, there
I am. Have I always loved
the wobbly; did the trains used to go
there; when did you move
thence; nineteen seventy-five. Before I was born
of my mother, though she'd given her first
that August. September follows
me. When certain cheeses age their flesh
darkens and they develop
delicious crystalline flecks, butterflies all so
peaceful in Bruce's yard, fireflies flickering
about us: books can only
moulder but maybe
a bit of sacred statuary rests with
us, breathing.