By morning, you will be invisible, mon dream—
You are every rush-moth in your story, every torso, every bitch.
Now, you are distracting Moi.
This is my work, the infidelities of me, my own ivory hillocks, my toy
Pram filled with slippery mice, my own mares fetlock-deep in squalls
Of snow. This was at a time when certain vocables were wearing
Out, torn from being said too much.
When you come home again, each slightly lamed creature will gather
At our garden door. If I listen hard I’ll hear the unsewn
Stitching of their improbable and awkward gaits, each one
A little wobbly from the cruelty of the husbandry; your will be done.