I have driven a dust Nova to that beaten
house have taken the bronze
candlesticks from your antique cabinet, have left
peonies waterless at the table, have found
the kitchen somewhat brighter than that dark
diningroom. Old coffee clung to the air
but could no longer burn my throat deep
dry as the bedroom crucifix -- dead
branches we twisted together two summers
ago. The dust runs deep so much
brown. I have taken a broom from where the dryer was,
so much -- dry peonies and coffee grounds-- runs deep,
by dusk I have reached the door narrow
as the roads I must drive passed fields gone dry.