What was it he needed to read? There was a book on one
of the shelves. He only remembered the cover was green.
88 keys, 11 octaves. After daily exercises,
the lid came down on a felt runner of green.
The first year is paper, the eighth bronze, the twelfth
silk or linen; the sixteenth, a candlestick silvery-green.
What trees grew in front of our first house? One
shed only flame-colored leaves, the other green.
One arrow struck the girl, the other struck the god. He pursued her,
even as her feet grew roots, her arms leafed over with green.
Near the water, there used to be a house of quarantine. On a short
stretch of road, broken shells in the gravel amid tufts of green.
Should your mind quietly open that side door and leave, what
will you remember of us, of our days greener than green?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.