Beating and beating the air with his wide wings,

As if calling the field to order....There is no order.

What day of the week is this? Wash day?

Bake day? What hour of what day?....Behind you,

Flanked by steely thistle, stands the old goat,

Contemptuous, uninterested, gnawing on the last

Of a Sunday dress; and “I had a goat once,”

The thought that comes to me, “I had a small

Black goat, who pounded his head against a tree

Until he was dead. His name was Bumblebee....”

Well, night is coming on. No, it is dead afternoon.

But there is something about night in this cloud-

Shadowed field. Perhaps the stars are shifting

Behind the veil of day? Perhaps. Perhaps....Oh,

I would turn this pretty. You see the cowbirds

Riding the boney heiffer by the overturned bathtub?

The birds are dung-colored, yes, but when

They rise and swim together they change color,

Brown to red, the way the light changes color

At dusk. And, yes, the swans by the back fence

Are foul-tempered and mean as sin, but look

How their necks wave about now like the stems

Of lilies in the wind....lilies blowing in the wind....

The goat snorts and turns his back. He has

Swallowed the last of the dress....Oh, Sheep, Sheep,

This is my undoing, that you have a thought

And I can read it. Dear Monstrous Child, I would

Nurse you if I could. But you are far too large,

And I am far too old for such foolishness.

The South Gate

Light cups the breasts of the lion. Who remains

Unbothered. Stone lion. Stained breasts suddenly

Full of milk. And no one to feed on them. No one

To catch the warm liquid as it falls, sweet and fast,

To the ground. Moss on the lion’s legs. Moss

Bloodying her small feet. Moss darkening the fruit trees

Dressed now in the snow that raises the ghosts

Of dead flowers: a visible shadow: a touchable shadow:

Flesh of water and ash. Like the sun, the lion

Is a two-faced creature. One face looks forward.

The other back. One grins. The other grimaces.

Her four eyes are old. Oh, it is a far, far country

The lion comes from. A place almost unimaginable,

So dull are we. The lion herself almost unimaginable,

Even with her curious form stationed above us.

Wide the arms of the roses nailed to the wall below her.

Dry the weeds. White the snow dressing the ground

And then dressing it no more. Low the sound

Where no sound should be. Deep in the heart of the ground.

The lion will bear a child. How can a stone lion

Bear a living child? Because still in the corner

Of her deformed head a dream lodges. Her breasts

Produce milk. The sweet milk falls to the ground.

The ground is a flock of dead birds. The wind

Rises. The fed offspring stirs. Soon he will stagger