is it any wonder the demesne is snug
knowing the evening gold is another one for the books?
even forgives two men halted by its gate,
daring to rest their clay glutted feet there.
saying: “padriag, you’ve borne queer fruit
there,” “haven’t I just.” “ahh, you’re the divil
himself.” “are we off so?” they leave.
gold elevators lift them to heavenly tramlines.
later. in the upper guttering a chick is swamped.
I know. I find its chalk deposited when I clean
out the mush of dead leaves next autumn-winter
laughing. we re-hearse its never un-packed wings
one of which will oftentimes squeak at the hinge.
unwittingly, the horse bolts across the stretch.