Everything in its reverse—
the April trees wake up with red and crumbling buds.
The field mouse chases the cat through the grass which bends
the wind which shaves the mountain which smears
its pigment through the sky.
Ash leaps into flame and the beaten, poorest
children dance at the feasts served in their honor.
But this too falls apart.
The wine separates from the water which returns
to the sea which returns to the dark.
Chorus voices fall to a shrill silence.
Stones melt. A zero rises in the west, like when
you close your eyes and see a disc hovering
in the orange corner of your mind. A glimmer
of sweetly unintelligible sound,
an oratorio far away and underground.
The river gathers up its long skirt.
My shoes put me on and walk me down
to the hill where my father leans
on a trenching spade.
But before he can dig,
but before he can,