What might have been child
tight against a wall,
made a pillow from
the floor, long swept of
embers, but not of cold.

Rain dulls the night,
not the eyes.
If there’d been a horn
it would be polished
every day, brighter
than any saint. A fresh

week wound to its
spring. The tip lodged
with last summer’s
petals. Every winter

would stay the elderwood
with pies and revels
and sweet pastries. Half-

shadows stiffen. Locked in the
girdling web. Such a place

where olive-branch
tautens to arrow, stream

to stone, crows gape.
Fingers caress and
crevice each
wall. Whipped up

beyond the pasture, the
lure of pipes.

kj16jul11

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