sang his hearty slow
to sleep in upstairs ceiling
low above his head.
Woke he mid-morning, kinsmen
song, and one his voice, and fingers
strummed the thoughts, the work, the right
of me, of you, of them, of bleating hers
and he's. She comes along, to ride and see
his resting willery, placed so—still! Preserved
our day with his one voice, one heart of minds
reflected in the civic work of lateness, lateness, wakeful
sleep.
Posted by nancy at October 14, 2009 10:42 AM