[ an aside for the tragedy of the vision]

ARMANDA
the leaves each year after a long winter
are warm coloured , outraged of dark mornings
then emerged the friendly sun, daylight poor,
of the stoned wall, and yet the cold day so far
piled cloth of dead leaves, a spanish companion
azaleas slide teabags into the bristled mug
in components of the pears across, in raucous recess
like oaks in autumnal gates of light, paces of ice
countersurged at convesations in the delicate main
and the sun holds the prickle brush, painter parent
nurseling of the tall atelier cane of sky pavillions
and pretended waters swim past the poop canvass
the earth offers whatever orphan story of constricting spring
how it becomes the earth we breathe
and bodies the green camphire of seance
from the porche of evergreens to black cofee
the sky blue sun covered by darker shapes of night

my country house, and from my window corals
and raisins found in the polish of dusk
led around in the corner, a picture of substantial prevention
stairwell of remembrancer , trimmed, jammed rediscovery
given up by the kneeling dead leaves everywhere
tucked beads in lumberyards
hewn axe of the hungered moonshine, its light
beneath the surface of the once azure house guest
landscapes of a gammon mirror, reflective, satin
but later, the shadow of the trunk heaved
and the canopy of life becomes like the stars cradled
only aside for the tragedies of nose cotton, blocks
inflamed the eyebrow of stagnant creeks and canals
path of history behind the pastures of the sun.