A VERY OLD SUBJECT
I lose the keys in all my dreams.
Suffering burns the fire clean.
The number seven. A cup of whey.
Hot oven baking heart-shaped squash.
The numbers three and seventy-seven.
My mother won't ever help me look.
Enchanted grooms, animal brides.
Also, the seventh son of a
seventh son. Call a spade a spade.
Kill two birds with one stone.
Necklace of bones, knuckles probably.
I find the keys, only an hour too late.
Evensong and morning light.
All night, a weasel
raids the coop. Who I peer
at makes stars rattle.
I wake, always, from the dream
with relief. Pronouncedly,
the mole's stone-blind.