The apple-stained plow boy.

We float light shards on ponds, sip

strawfulls of syrup by hailstorm.

Now we are combing through

haystacks and leaf piles just for the smell.

This is not elegy, is nothing

so orderly. Prayers

out the window like heat.

The black-scarved turbulence of winter rain.

On my knees. The mongrels

make their muzzlesounds

as the pills

in my cupboard turn

to little piles of powder.