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.

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