The night's thinking of her mother
and an egret's wing. Why must it
always come back to this?
A hem raised. A calico
forgotten and then remembered
on the pages of a catalog.
The women are always around.
Tell me, love, when has
the night been so sure of itself?
When has dusk? Today,
when the woman picked up
her coat that had fallen
from her chair, were you thinking
it was just as well?
The button lying on the floor,
its eyes wide open, wishing
it were a penny, imagining
your luck if you would
only pick her up.
And the egret feather, too,
the death of it frayed
on the the edges, wanting
at last to be buried,
the quick of it, and the gray.
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