????A mortal circle of leaves,crimson, the maple tree????bent down, a diviner,knee-deep in its own??dry rattle. A massacre.???How could we havemissed it, even distracted??as we are, dumbfounded,??stitching a handkerchief,a tulle skirt, each seam??what we saw when our gaze??went astray, mortal (again),as you would say, a bridge?too far, though not without??its small mercies—a littlefolderol, the lion faces??of the pansies, the umber??moths fanned embersin the beech tree. Where there’s???water, there’s water,?where there’s air, air—this morning, the flame bush???aglint, a chandelier??of ice, the water brackishin the coiled hose, a rat?gnawing the wooden spoons.?When is enough enough?I am where my fancies?take me, I am not what???I am—the blackened mapleburning its leaves, the jackdaws??circling, the moth’s wing charred,???beating and beating.