From the Fishouse

From airshafts I hear rummage. And summer
long. A matter of joint-rot and den,

a toothsong constant as a clatter of calves

and as blind. The needlepoint is (rootfringe
on a dead fig) fine. Concentration here,

crosshatched rag and gall, the fibers gouged

with stitch-lift. Awareness is like this, the stirring
low of swallows banking and impossibly

flown. Then a lamping in the wicker hour,

a stall, suspicion summoned or released, awake
all evening like cattle-dogs unhooked from sleep.