dead
all those instances of rapture
that smell of cedar
on damp days spent bug-eyed
watching ants by the river
build busy civilizations
that ours—alack—too slow
will probably never get
so many pearls of prices
so exorbitant they swirl
far beyond the pull of clocks
lie strung on matted weeds
where her convalescence rested
amid the calm agitation
of teeming, tiny living
that after hours of free instruction
always taught her to take
up her bed and walk
her hand had awesome reach;
she managed to autograph
some of the grasses here
still stirring in the chatter
that lower sky keeps up
with higher earth
in the fields of Sleepy Hollow
I think the bobolink
will probably mourn
but thankfully
without a hint of black.