Another Pastoral A

153 AARON MCCOLLOUGH ANOTHER PASTORAL A Slice of fruit and coffeecigarette slice of flower founder on his way to the underworld who wanted to touch mist. Sis, the skin is not opaque says Ficino so the fire in the hearth is a window. I try to hear you singing. Grass between the thumbs and holes in the skies vellum we get not, but the pieces make sense, enough sense to begin, so your face in the window lights this corner of the bed, and there I lay out the pieces. Tonight a storm all over the roof, tomorrow twig and eddy devastation, how is this not the entire universe? We must not know for sure. To follow the song far enough, foolishly enough, backward, we are inclined, because of joy. Because joy’s mother is so controlling. Gully ways and speeds, creases in the organism, which is a hill of purgatory or the pit. The corners gnawed when there was a puppy. The joint between shoulder and head extending, so an ear might be leant, or curious for a dint of breeze. 154 The enormously bolted cinder. Terrific arch over little screens we make of our deep brushes with joy. ...