Web of unturned matter  
smoldering in the yard.  
A flame in the compost

or a molten tongue
that starts the dog barking.
Abortus tranquillus.

Every day now:
a before or an after.
Or, an endless encore.  

Born in a long hall
under a burnishing moon.
Go to your room. Go to your  

room and stay there.
Look at your tongue: tiger
stripes up and down.

Bearer of sorrow, curl up
your muddy locks
and worm away.  

I’m not the one  
to teach you  
how to walk.

I have been  
mopping up after you  
all these days.                

 II.

Milk crusting  
in a cereal bowl.  
Figs like little death’s-

heads left, predictably,
untouched.  A paper cup  
berthed in its own spilt pool.  

A still life  
of the widespread type—  
The Breakfast Piece—

that, in their rush  
to school, the boys  
lightly abandoned.  

Remnants of a meal  
or of a life? In all of our  
formal studies, always  

the latter. Pieces unexpectedly  
arranged and surfacing  
like orphans wanting care.  

We move as if across  
an oily canvas  
to wash them, wash them.