The bareness, magenta morning, blue fog around.
Under the carmine house they went, gone.
Rose tide made in coffee.
Crabapples are yellow, leave me be.
We are lepidopteran, you and me and she is gone.
The sparrows are through the east wind,
Tansy, oak leaves, pine cones made of her,
Flattened in the gutter, despite your salt.
I whirl above the incinerator, the smoke; ochre.
Stamp it. Rub it. You had her. You had them.
These petioles are smoke itself; you are not them.
Burn the evening, and the parent candle that is yours.
Jupiter is making the fires; she will be gone.
Draft the telephone, go to the white pine, now.
The hydrant, the street rust in the windfall.
Tear the grasses, make the window bittersweet.
I have made a granite drone, that is you.
Clarify yourself to the house, to yourself, to me;
We shuffle, walk on slats of paper,
In between the dog, among the cornflowers,
You are the lichen— we are the lichen.
Those rag weeds, sedge, in the incinerator.
They are made of clay unlike you, my child.
Walk with me, with the siskin, on the basil hill,
On the marsh. Record it in you; brush the yew.
The bridge is made of string, it has been made.
Refuse the door, her raspberry hair, the speckle of ruin.
Consult me first, the chestnut, the apple tree, the maple.
It is done. We are the bean of fires and she is GONE.