town is a series of ?’s
and you read by
light, so plain
that you might as well be a swan
and then—you’re a swan too,
without a sense of line
and you fold yourself in leaves
and you learn to understand that a knowledge is
something as quiet as a sheen.
When you were younger,
you forgot Schuyler
too easily, and that was before you got lost in all trees.
But you would like to close your eyes and picture yourself there—
some northern sky, or perhaps it is only north
as pictured, as always, ever pictured here.
But there are things to do (you love flowers);
they’re easy, their graces.