The dogs of war sniff at our heels.
And every canine fang craves meat.
The bell of forgiveness rarely peels.
Streams run red. There’s nothing to eat.

I see you darn the autumn air
at the lake’s edge,
back and forth,
back and forth,
as if the fabric of sunlight

I the spider
waiting for the cabbage
butterfly
here among the vegetables.
Strong web
of my instincts

These are French footprints,
leaving the road north of Beauvais,
disappearing into a Norman wood.
Boot size and tread say—a man.

I dreamt the laptop in our bedroom
only achieved its stupendous power
with the help of demons that, of course,
exact their price. In my science
fiction dream these beings imperceptibly

Wanton, verb, “to waste or squander,” thus
to want on and on beyond the musical measures
life provides, over the hump of happiness, and into
precincts where Conscience fades like a distant
radio signal and Temptation spreads
a pretty cloth over a soiled table.

Now 90 and still on her own land,
she sits by the sunny window
straight up in her chair,
once-strong peasant hands
holding the arms.