Tell me again why you brought me here.
It has been three days in bed without milk,
without consonance and handfuls of cotton.

The birds in the lane eat rice patties
and I mourn for the loss of their mother.
No child should have to shovel any deeper

than a stovepipe or hand knitted mitten.
Where do you go when the cat’s gone?
Every morning here is a whirl of peppermint.

The concierge held the window open for me
and for a moment I saw an orange on a table.
It rolled away before I could mention it.

There is a desk with a drawer full of raisins.
Maybe if I filled it with shavings and wax
it could grow deep into the chimney and sing.

It has been three days of nautical storms
and unraveling sweaters. Baskets of blue
and yellow yarn to keep count of the moments.