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.