Papery as the rustle of crepe
myrtle, thin as the shade of their wild
and intense flowering—
I want to quilt the dresses
they drop as quickly as
they don them.
I want the lawnmower’s mouth
to leave them alone, to take
its noisy breath somewhere else.
Some stones in the back
lie close together, as if
in a little churchyard.
A dragonly furls and unfurls
its iridescent pennants
as if rehearsing—
And sometimes all I want is
for the cistern to take my coin,
for the fountain to answer.