Nothing is distinct
down step by step
in the house's trapped heat
despite the window screens
undone again by paradox
in the last hour of night
with its flawed angels
its calm and quiet
as the inner world churns
the shirt I left on the porch rocker
heavy with dew
the grass wet in the drought
the moon masked and sinking
as the dark sky thins in the east
the woods on the verge of definition
you and I in our fragility on the verge
of coming to our senses.
—Inspired by, and borrowing from, Eavan Boland's "Midnight Flowers"
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