In this volume, green as even odds, we see so little of victory, Ham said.
The story of mighty fallen. How are they now? Ward of no man. Ward of any.
Under the washer, the smell of slippery water puddling the
vase hour, flat as the world before it was.
In the afterwards, fireworks, the dusty air floating small store-pink.
The hand holding the icy pop can.
A carpet of packed dirt and bare feet beiged by dust.
One had no name but he sang. All day all night. They kissed, of course.
The play will not go forward, he said, and it didn’t despite their tears.
Despite decline. The day proceeded dumb.
Louise was to have played spring and advanced
across the stage in a bit of a slink. But it were not to be so.
. . .
After that she felt her frail fortune reversing; she grew more and more a picture.
Finally the day turned dark brown, bountifully beautiful.
The rabbits were happy.
A clutch of cackling hens with their fat young cheeks crossed
the road in front of them.
Why are they crossing? Ham asked.
Why indeed. Charles Gordon called her an owl and she didn’t object.
Waking at night, skirting the damp floor of the forest.
Leaving a feather caught in the foxglove.
Foraging for a view through the prism of nature.