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
What light there is in me waits like a winter field the way stars, by day, hide like seeds’ buried choirs. Once I called
A flock of doves condensed into vestments.
All of winter stood before the people,
disguised as a man with a pleasant singing voice.
Candles were lit behind
He said he saw a deer dragging barbed wire, its mouth white with foam, its eyes dim. And I had little to offer, so