Tell me the story again,
how you made another body
of your own and kept him well & here. Imagine: his
enormous leather mittens, still filled. Bucket crowded
with unwashed russet potatoes. Loss is a far cry from
utterly unhinged, just me and my lattice windows.
He is gone, and no one in the world can remember the things I remember.
Little north, I want to call it like it is: I’ll bite you.
I didn’t come here to make friends. I came
to set the elvers swimming.
Pole to common pole, I’ll keep you out.
It is a month and its relinquish I am talking about,
muddied hem, salted boots, the sorrel foal who will
chimney into the slippery dawn.