You wore your cello in your brown backpack, tall as yourself,
another for the trip around the world when you were 84.
“But Juliette, who are you acquainted with in Mongolia?”
“Oh, well, you know, people are nice to old ladies.”
The yellow-green tips of branches in the wind
oblige the other
like pedestrians in Manhattan
turning sideways carefully to let each other pass.
Crows woke me,
It’s that way with you, love:
your raucous cawing
and your disreputable congregation.Break up everything.
your black, shining feathers.
Fathoms deep,
though no one knows,
some say that life began in boiling vents.
Some antsy quivering slithered up to a kind of protaand then a zoa wiggled by
and that was the stem of it all.