A worm for the bird. The boy did not know

What he saw. He thought the dead boy

Must be something other. Flesh of a lily.

Or a fallen hat. He thought what he thought.

And then he thought no longer. The wind

At once loud in the trees. The birds loud.

The boy had wanted a brother. But this

Was not what he meant. Had he said

The wrong words? Did words have such power?

And then he saw what he saw, and he knew

From this day forward, for better or worse,

For worse or better, he would carry this shadow

Of no certain shape—now a lamb, now a bird,

Now a boy dressed as a woman—from here

To there, and there to here. Back to this bog

Or another. This wood or another. Berries

Bright or rank. Water foul or pure. Birds loud

In the trees. Or still. And softer than fleece,

Softer than grass, it already raining.

Rose of Sharon

I loved the rose of Sharon. I would have loved it

For its name alone. I loved its fleshy blossoms.

How fat they were. How fast they fell. How the doves,

Mean as spit, fought the finches and the sparrows

For the golden seed I spilled beneath the bush.

How I threw seed just to watch the birds fight.

And the blossoms fallen were like watered silk

Loosely bound. And the blossoms budding

Were like the dog’s bright penis first emerging

From its hairy sheath. And the blossoms opened wide

Were like the warm air above the pool of Siloam.

Tree of breath. Pink flowers floating on water.

The flushed blossoms themselves like water.

Rising. Falling. The wind kicking up skeins

Of scented foam. High-kicking waves. Or laughing

Dancers. O silly thoughts. But a great sweetness....

And then it was over. An ice storm felled the tree.

With a clean cut, as if with a hatchet. One year

A whole flock of birds. One year a crop of fruit

That melted on the tongue, a kind of manna, light

As honey, just enough to sustain one. And then nothing.

The breasts gone dry. The window opening onto

Bare grass. The small birds on the wire waiting

For the seed I do not throw. Pride of my heart,

Rose of Sharon. Pool of scented breath. Rose

Of Sharon. How inflated my sorrow. But the tree

Itself was inflated. A perpetual feast. A perpetual

Snowfall of warm confetti....And now I worry.

Did the bush fear the ice? Did it know of the ice’s

Black designs? Did its featherweight nature darken

Just before it was felled? Was it capable of darkening?

Windfall