April hides in a wing where a duck tucks his green head, mourning’s night long still and you haven’t felt yet what sun can
Small as a tablespoon, her medicine
pouch holds the fragment of a psalm sing
unto the lord a new song and strands
of black European cloth, pseudomorphs
of
Say darkness. Not revelation—
I am not the end of the world.
I am the world.
Under your world. Where you fry
potatoes for your
The nut-tree sisterhood, what better name for a row of crazy women, wearing hats of entablature, pushing down their skirts on a breezy porch,