the stethoscope and the aubergine
are heiresses to the wind,
death has laughed in the shoe-box
and mother was a Sioux Indian -
her maxim-box was full of sandwiches
and love behind the refrigerator
in dustballs there.
the dry sequencings of ice have found me
and eaten beauty -
the pear-tree which grew on the mountain Hebron.
days have grown there
and slain to the wind,
cold fish, dead apples,
the palimpsest we writ in.