Orchard – Susan Millar DuMars
I torched our orchard last night.
The first flames were feathers
fallen from some bright,
Most of what happens happens beyond words.
The lexicon of lip and fingertip
defies translation into common speech.
You shrugged off the raiment of the living
—and I knew I would forget you,
——–the way all the dead are forgotten,
At the Fair – Edith Sitwell
I. Springing Jack
Green wooden leaves clap light away,
Severely practical, as they
Shelter the children candy-pale,
The chestnut-candles flicker, fail . . .