How is it that I always thought of love
as a feeling and not as a humble service
or clearest knowledge? The poems I wove
and disassembled, the wide and quiet curve
of the heavens moving indistinctly: carve
the apples into shapes resembling heaven
and ascend spheres. How is it I've observed
the bugs and birds but haven't been forgiven?
How is it that the movement of the seven
luminaries only occults things? I chime
like a struck bell, I sing in the uneven
verse of those not published. The few rhymes
that populate her songs describe a sheep
that wandered as the shepherd fell asleep.
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