The old man next door never comes out of his house. He is not unkind or even unfriendly. I remember this from before. He lifts a corner of the curtain and peers through the little window. Hesitates before opening the door. In the far corner of the backyard a sundial is buried in weeds and wild brush. I ask if he might consider selling it. He turns away and closes the door.
Where the garden once was;
a woman kneeling
– as though pulling weeds.
For hours maybe minutes all night
dreaming I cannot sleep
find the word Insuette written
on wallpaper, wanting to be taken.
At 4:52 I get up. Through the window
bamboo chimes, night shadows and a moonlit chair.
Insuette. Her heart so far adrift I must call back
the swimming dog, search for a boat I will never find.
Soft-minded, hesitant and out of step
I expect nothing from the morning
think the dull silver light all wrong
but am mistaken. A rabbit waits. Insuette.
Dancing on Frozen Beaver Ponds 