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These rafters rain
rich droning threads
late for a parlement with the sea,
pardon -- as they bead over wire
and wood and ear, the steampunk sun
sits outside knees
gathered to his face, rocks back
and forth, back and forth
shocked clockwork in his blue...

But she,
(and when I say
she has eyes like the sun,
you must poke out all of your imagining,
dab them easy down,
cretaceous to canopy to chrysanthemum
to some sad fool of a girl,
and the last of these short days will wash away -
it's slow motion alright,
slow motion alright, don't you see...

But remember, no matter what:
her short breaths and her pickup truck and
her panicked flight to barcelona;
we owe her that at least.

But it's sad, or something:
even though we are all perihelion
with this reckless remembering,
even as the single-pined hill
comes radar over the morning,
the family wine slopping into the tablecloth,
(no matter)

She and I are home again
flourishing right before your eyes,
right before your eyes