of cow parsley. Behind the plum tree
Below the maple with the swing -
which gets going if you climb the compost heap.
From your yellow room you can’t see hooves
treading mud you know is clay.
You prepare your plaster of Paris, and make a frame
to hold it in. You pore over the marks and tracks
outside. Careful to check
you are not looking at a dog print.
You find the tread of a split hoof.
—
Now, I tell myself, I get my prints
through the letterbox. Letters with clearer marks,
here and more hurried scrawl
here.
Dear -
has it together, she sends objects
to arrange on shelves. I needn’t wait
for these to set.
Dear -
the helm, wrote the word epistle, which I like
the helm writes that my marks make another mark saying
yours, —
If I cast the gaps she leaves in poems,
I’d press out other words.