from Memorial Day
I'm reaching so far, I think, and more -- at home,
Leroy, in these wooded
screened back places where we're listening --
for these songs
as bedroom, stoop, and studio have made them,
moving with time
among the lambs' ear and clematis, with words,
as they form, made free,
moving as one with the fronds' lilt
and passing little breezes.


This surely is not / was not the poem
I had in mind at starting,
made of the same common threads, made
of the voice and marvelling,
of this greenness, I think, this greenest somewhere
near fenced places,
when even the courts would seem
to have been taken
by the singing, and the players, breaking
from songs
for 3-on-3s, are hearing this voice again,
calling out your number,
or turning their heads, assisting
something further
in the making / in the dailiness
let's say,
and this larger education
in pure scale.