by Geoffrey G. O'Brien

    The winter， it was the winter all

    the usual things happened，

    I have forgotten what

    would travel from the north

    as a series seen from above

    or from below， and the followers，

    the flowers， I tore them up

    the next summer， or rather

    before or immediately after

    and thought no more about it.

    But then the summer， plans

    to sign a contract， the summer

    came back for what it was：

    a small sprinkling of rue

    and a yellow fantasy

    and we were invited. It appeared

    tall and swaying and deaf

    to appeals， and the winter following，

    this was the arrangement-

    first one and then into

    another not yet there，

    many years of this refrain

    and all the productions within it

    coming to mean more

    of an intimacy between

    musical instruments and still lifes

    you lose yourself in again

    and probably have now，

    what objects have known

    in their one dark winter afternoon.

    They are still visited

    by everything else and together

    complete the effect， a distance

    which the next day took form.

    That winter stopped and probably

    on account of summer a spring，

    spring with a sturdy fringe

    and a local reputation，

    it's outside， in various rooms

    and looks at everything，

    a few lilacs in awkward

    positions， but they were alright，

    it was summer， very strong，

    passing organizations，

    which never finished anything

    and ended in making

    all this， cold coals

    of wildflowers， little wars

    at the centers， they go on for years

    burning near the front

    and from below.