Soaring birds, a broken cage. Husband elbow-

deep in the graveyard, turning over dirt. The fish

is, though boxed-in, elusive: slim fingers reach

& come up empty. Your heart forgets to warn you

about the still air that portends a downpour. Sex-

less, your hooded thing the last thing you love.

Flat tresses, long skirts, denuded vines & forgotten

wineglasses balanced on the wooden casket.

You hold your gloved hand aloft, braced &

steady. Yeats’ falconer seizes your vision,

your bookshelves full of other people’s words

while your prolix librettos unword themselves.

Luck comes when you will it to, you think:

the birds, the bible, all gone, unwritten.