"They fly forgotten, as a dream"
--Isaac Watts, Our God, Our Help
Morning’s cornstalk topples into that charcoal-pit
afternoon. She slept beside the river, dreamt
men were happy, their women were not
unhappy. You read this because I have gone
ahead, there are no banks, only water-swirl
and one Amazonian lily, open
so the sky can fall into it night after night.