So this is reality—a ghostscape in the afterstorm,
the lake lit white with lightning. A mouth open
in a yawn. Children, children, sit here. Near.
Louise and Lydia both wearing the same blue dress
trimmed with white ribbon, a bow on each shoulder.
The long-suffering dog lets Louise (as you can see,
the taller by sight) sit on his back. She is his most beloved
and he is hers. A shoe, a sock, an arm
on the back of a sofa. So, reality. Wind and water.
Louise with her hair pulled back, Lydia with a veil.
Fruit and fish, a flat dish rimmed with seashells.
Maple leaf and myth. Ophelia.
The bed, the bottle, the dog, the cat, the elephant
blanketed red in a circular scene. And now—
the foot is lifted, the trunk is lofted, and sound
fills the air and now the pear tree, the Palais de Pape,
the pool table. Lydia with a hat, Louise with a bat
and ball. A game of badminton, a day of croquet,
a crown of sonnets, or terrible thorns. Fruit
rimmed with seashells, a fish with two feet.
The long-suffering sofa. A circular scene: the bull enters
the ring. The myth of man’s disobedience.
Louise on a lake, shoes light wet with white rain.
Lydia like Ophelia, her face in a flower. A frond.
A frond. A tangle of twos. A terrible knot.