Oaks or chestnuts, what here
draws brass linen, wakes me, overcast,
with the polished sprigs of my grandmother’s
lamp, holding the plumed shade once
holding fire by her opened bible, parsed
for the night’s reading. Across dark and
plywood, an aqueduct’s dry run, listen
my voice, around her house, croton leaves
from the oven’s heat, levitating.
Saturdays doubles her to a bee. I outstare
the sea and summon the carols of Christmas;
her fake pine tree, its foil star
perforates the town’s gossiping lights.
I again turn the pages, she sleeps
in the watered-down night.
Where do they go? Where do they go?