He's the alabaster carton you flock. She's the
weaponry of doves.
On these blue hills whose guts gleam the distant
waters TV antennae stand the rain. A boy plays on the
Porch among Dogs in the bent and bending of the storm.
Whose light pours this morning on your scarves? What
light! Goats stream into the room and nibble on the
pale fields of the scarred stomach.
The fields are rich where the boy's gone. Mosquitoes
glow in the cool harbor, afterbirth of the mechanized
lullaby. And how they hatched stinging the morning of
"Baby Moses dead in the reeds"--among perch and
smoke--read the trembling sign.
song for baby moses