We breathe hung white, stiff washing, stilled dancers,
ungloved summer hands blue,
as slow, low-winged things rise
stone fruit bletts, rots, dries.
Skin slopes to white,
we key the radiators, out pour wild-swum rivers:
now the geese are settling there instead
speckling white-brown feathers on the
carpet, on the bald reed bed.

(To be found, also, here: