Attention, our cities, our mothers,

       reading your letters: dear tonight

 

But the blindness of the day, the fruitbearer

Come here

Will you let me dance a little?

 

His hand, salted. Her body out of the forest, pines, please, a funeral.

The flow of water from a pitcher — lucky

Who holds you at their neck?

 

All the children — someone says their names every day. Every day

the factory says here’s to running

       and living more

       on streets told with “after these welcomes”

They are learning how to sing

 

Where are you going?

Lay back in the stone someday

It’s true that there are no rivers in Denver Colorado

 

The almond tree ministered a wedding

and gave rest to a girl becoming nameless during sunrise. She discovered how to be religious

But where in this month’s heaven can she find

the same sweetness?