Under the rosebush, a patch of blood—

and in the yard, no evidence but dumb mud,
the lid off a daffodil. Someone said bees;
did Hannah see bees? Hannah did. No lion oil.
Improbable versus impossible? That old riddle,
disguised as metaphysic. We sew, we sew—
that is our nature. Did I cite operas are
poetic? I did. We piece the parts together,
cobble a makeshift quilt from things that lie
side by side. It’s hot. I want to sit very still,
but there is no cool overhang of rock, no little
oasis even in this pebbled garden. And sex at noon
taxes. O stone, be not so. We saw the red root
put up to order. When did the moon last rise?
Seven eves ago? I might kiss you again,
when no one’s looking; but you must promise
not to ask too much, you must promise
not to ask me difficult questions with no
answer, like Do geese see God?

*

(A mostly found poem of palindromes.)

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.