by Judith Skillman
Singletons foolhardy enough to come in two,in sets, ghosts notes foolhardy as to be seen—long stripes the rainbow left when it disappeared.Nation of water and excess, each little drill another sourceof loss and discontent. Or else what music callsto the earth from its dislocated sky, low-hanging, pregnantwith Noah’s flood. Again inundated, as in dream. A slow truth brings the body back—it is the otherwho lies between two worlds. It is the uncle shrunken to halfhis size, that one who succored me with smoke ringsfrom his ear. Child, the birdbath fills, come let us drink.