Poetry

The loss you can’t remember.
Crumbling walls, the mind’s stupor.
The haze at the horizon, the loss
indistinct, the stammered words
repeating themselves.
You can’t remember.

A sleeper
purifies a room.

The three fates in dark
skirts and starched shirtwaists
bend over their work,

Almost always, it’s just getting dark
when you come back, when you arrive
on this street;
dark
and perhaps just beginning to rain,

On a clear day, the jealous
Are jealous of ash leaves,
Flies, all jewelry of air.

The Germans have a word for it, the pleasure
in what one does best. Don’t fret the accent;