THANKSGIVING'S OVER
The promise, move the mountains, while they lean,
As dryas dust for want
Of trusting. Michael, look, the lordly range
Over our brooks' chorale of broken rocks,
797
Lifting a bowshot's distance, clouds and suffers change–
Blue cloud! There, ruin toils not, though infirm:
Our water-shed! Our golden weathercocks
Are creaking: Fall is here, and starlings. Flocks
Scavenge for El Dorado in the hemlocks.
o
Michael, hurry up and ring my bell.
Ring, ring for me! ... Why do you make us kneel?
Why are we praying? Michael, Venus locks
My lattice, lest a chatterbox
Archangel- O so jealous-spoil and steal
Her commonweal,
My bedroom. Is it just another cell,
This
Primavera,
where the Graces wear
Only the air:
Unmarried April! It is hell!
A lying-in house where the Virtues wither.
I promise, Michael. Michael, I will promise.
I promise on my kneeler-in these stocks!
Your Virtues, owls and parrots, bend my ear
And babble: C
hauerer,
Our owlet, once in a blue moon we stir;
Our elbows almost touch you. How we care
And worry, Goldielocks;
Thanksgiving's Goose, poor loveless Venus: life's a sell.
Our loveless fingers crook to crunch your sage
And parsley through your wishbone-you! I'll tell
You, Michael Darling-an adulterer,
My husband, shows me in a parrot's cage
And feeds me like a lion. While I age,
Virtues and elders eye me. Love, the outrage
Would have undone me, if my mind had held
Together, half a moment. Altar boys
Lit candles with my diary. Page by page,
