Perversion, sang the sea,
in waves. Perversion, sang the wind, leaving the waves
for shore and, past that, the trees, their narrow
trunks branchless until the very top where, if the trees
were scepters, the decoration would be, there at
last the branches appeared, making the trees seem too top-heavy
to withstand a wind, a storm-wind, yet the trees moved
easily back and forth inside it, a bit like dancing when
joy hasn’t been anchored, yet,
to shame — and shame, accordingly,
to inhibition. 7 hawks. 2 coyotes. There’s a lot more

tenderness in you than I think you realize
is what he said to me, as if it weren’t too late, he brought his hand
to my face, but lightly enough that,
should I be in any way upset or frightened,
he could call it an accident — accidents
aren’t mistakes. Memory: not the point, here. We did
what we did. As if there were, as to the body, a muscularity
to understanding, too. We do
what we do. The storm kept storming. On quieter nights,
they went firefly watching, in boats
called fireflies.