blue

The change lay still curled
on a thin stretched woven blanket,
where last evening
England's oldest and most hurtful words
have cut themselves another nest;
frozen patches where my Jenny wept
exposed on one too many
moon stained winter nights.

These hours, when the mere anguished
find sleep,
(dim glowing butts, dead cigarettes);
when every finger of the wind trains nickel horn pipes
through the cracked, unpainted window sill
and the cruel blue light

Emily, my little lamb inside that decorated crib,
who lured persistant catalogues of deaf,
demented quiet;
(the antique glossary of medicines i most fear)
coughing like a fortune teller on her last
precocious holiday of faith and charm;
who curled the sallow quilt inside her acorn fists.

Through the clever spin of cradle bars and bows
the midnight doldrums of her innocence convulsed
into a dirge of wisdom,
(. . . were blue-bells in the clutch of strife.)
this vision through a perfect crystal
pressed too hard against the husk of life.
And from this tiny cradle where I witnessed holy things
tossed the many pink May-berries to the ground
and grew instead unsettled petals
naked on the vine.

Who should gain my house that doesn't ring the bell,
who saps these nights with meek unrest?
There inside the bassinet, your malicious cell,
young histories and my daffodil unraveling
'ere the morning had the fairest chance to turn
the hill face into spectacle.