The Weekly Commuter

In the new grass
a cat left his nap,
a sleep shape
where the stems
lie flat.
A naturalist, I collect
naps, but so does the rain
the clouds are threatening
and I don’t mind
giving in
to Spring.

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awaiting rain
night descends without stars
deserted streets in winter

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Under the hayflower
falling, we found her
seated, selling woven stuffs
in skirt relief
(delicate bird-lice
wax left
besting indigo bleeds).
Patterns, with the needs
of the wearer,
recede. Under the hayflower
falling, she felt
the fabric
folklore, soft
on the tops
of her knees, her feet,
light as lighting the morning
fire’s footfalls, dyed
vast shades of dawn,
twice as deep.

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Any number of mounted bells
may ring,
unaware of the labor
their summons
foretell (a peal insists
as well as anything
sweet sounds
may sing
on behalf
of meaner meanings).

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