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
They lie here side by side
in the long sleep, and I
wish I could set my ear
to the ground above them
and hear the night-talk,
those unintelligible
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