And now, for the human interest story,

a quarter past breeze and apple-size dust

of blossom, latticed fragments

tendrils, sheathed in birch sleeve

closed door economy,

my new bonfire of vanity,

a cement wall sloping cliff-face

and edge-hedge shed three-facing

attacking west-side with phlegm of

dragonfly and sword of spider

the mirror of an engine and a rotor

and a cap in hand and sweat that swells

the palace pond.

Of an afternoon they are oft

to sit and play and claim a piece

of stem, soil, sweet stawberry

gate of sun and doorway of dusk,

patters of feet they don't know

when to mark night or conquer day.

She embraces them with 

circle of earth and neck

and solemn sound.