It’s decided. Today I will arrange the stones
in piles next to the barn. It’s an order
only the angels will see. Out of the fields
and mighty fences, mighty angels might arise,
…so poetry is nonsense…to expect
an angel from a pile of stones, so that
even the ‘I love you,’ can seem superfluous,
like tying a can to a cat’s tail to scare up
old ghosts, like empty space is to the stones.
In truth, all you have to do is sit and listen,
and hope it’s all inside you, even though
it can’t be love, it can’t be stone, and it can’t
be piled up high enough. It can’t be home.
Suppose the barn was full of cows again,
moving, waiting to be milked each morning,
the pasture full of cow pats, a family of cats
kept hungry to look for mice, rats. Just watch
the mid-day light; just watch the hayloft glow;
the milk we drink as fresh as that.