For the housekeeper, for the housebreaker, for the
      steel balls of the wreckers,
For the grinders of glass and the sandwiches
       of dust,
For sugar in the morning and vinegar in the
      evening, brown tears on the green leaves,
Mercy.

For mice and water, pitted stones and 
      clicking wood,
For the caterpillars dying in beer like lords,
For the foundations and the gases,
A breath, but not two.

For the pattern-trapped, loitering on the ceiling,
The slow flies, faces in the afternoon dust-light,
For the dawn moon pressing its damp face against 
      the window, seeking a squat,
A sharp-lashed broom.

For the racket of morning, the sweet shell game of
      bodies cupped in salt,
For the gold belly of the lamp and the black trees 
      behind it,
Sinking, not yet sinking into the mountains blurred
      by shipwreck dusk,
A flattering clock.

For the old angels that fall from the trees, their dry 
      brown propeller wings,
Onto the poor lawn with its armpit tufts
And the dandelions’ foolish joy, and the mower,
For everything that ends, for us,
Let it be according.


            published in Alligator Juniper (2004)