Exactly, thought. Here she is having a mind,
a moon ghastly light on a person. To suffer
emotion, throat stiff, child grown larger.
A whole. Summoned so one can have a look.
Summoned to husband what’s happened.
The light challenged the powers
of feeling: frightening, exhilarating, surprise,
shame. It was over. Plaster and litter alone.
Five acts that had been.
Over and over. A strange power speaking.
Some concern for the half-past. Ring after ring
like something coming. It is thought,
this bell like a bee striking.
The future lies in a patter like a wood drummed.
A sensual traffic: what, where, and why.
Three emotions. Shutters and avenues.
The red burning. A lizard’s color in her eyes.
Evening wearing the fringes in the windows.
The light wavering in the darkness streets.
Atoms turned. Thinking like the pulse—
punctually, noiselessly silk.
Ridiculous. Her mother grown big.
She, like most mothers, a swept shuffle
of traffic and dress and nothing
except the flutter of absolution.
Such are things merged. The cupboard outline
becomes soft. A table. Cigarette smoke.
A baby bright pink. Daring with being.
That dog. Lots of coldness. Yet, some power
to preside with her head, with her shoulders,
through dinner. A sort of maternal politics.
Her dress disappearing. Sweeping off for bed
with headaches. Still, the sun. The squirrels.
Pebbles to the pebble collection. She blinks
at the crack of a twig behind the bedroom walls.