From the Fishouse

Sequent evening slopes inside, carries the sound of the caller. Distinctly
out of sync, the double rapping of the carpenter frog, mating knock
of the hummock, its earth-swallowed packets, its gists of pollen
in the peat’s dark core. Nymph
that the huntress

dug an escape for — faceless in the weir, an in beyond
a glass or dam, escaped I am of the mirror
branching. In sequin
switches of light, in wending rash
of magnifications.

Thread in. Morning lens
to a bog orchid claw, to its yellow life in the wetland body.