The bareness, magenta morning, blue fog swims
Under the carmine house, they all went,
One after another and gone.
Rose tides rise in the coffee heart,
Crabapples are yellow, leave me be!
We are lepidopteran, you and me
and she is not here, can’t you see?
The sparrows reach through the east wind,
Tansy, oak leaves, pink ivory made of her,
Flattened in the gutter, despite your salt
I whirl above the incinerator, the ochre smoke
Stamp it. Rub it. It chokes you but let it,
You had her, you had them,
These petioles are smoke itself; let the leaves go
Burn the evening, and the parent candle that is yours
The fire itself will swallow what’s yours
The hydrant, the streets, rust in the windfall
Tear the grasses, walk over them over and over
I have made a granite drone that is you,
Abdicate yourself to the house, to me!
We shuffle, we walk on slats of balsa,
In between the pines, among the cornflowers,
You are the lichen—we are the lichen
Those ragweeds ache in the incinerator
They are made of clay unlike you, my friend.
Walk with me, with the siskin, on the tainted hill,
The bridge has been made of borrowed strings,
Refuse the souvenir, her raspberry hair, the speckle of ruin
Put me first to be your apple tree, the stable trunk
It is done. We are the darts of fire
and she left us—
she is gone.