So she follows the trail of her father’s coat through the fair
Shouldering past beasts packed solid as books,
And the dealing men nearly as slow to give way —
A block of a belly, a back like a mountain,
A shifting elbow like a plumber’s bend —
When she catches a glimpse of a shirt-cuff, a handkerchief,
Then the hard brim of his hat, skimming along,
Until she is tracing light footsteps
Across the shivering bog by starlight,
The dead corpse risen from the wakehouse
Gliding before her in a white habit.
The ground is forested with gesturing trunks,
Hands of women dragging needles,
Half-choked heads in the water of cuttings,
Mouths that roar like the noise of the fair day.
She comes to where he is seated
With whiskey poured out in two glasses
In a library where the light is clean,
His clothes all finely laundered,
Ironed facings and linings.
The smooth foxed leaf has been hidden
In a forest of fine shufflings,
The square of white linen
That held three drops
Of her heart’s blood is shelved
Between the gatherings
That go to make a book —
The crushed flowers among the pages crack
The spine open, push the bindings apart.