14.

when the lights go out a second

time, we begin. tonight I will tell

you the story of the Pardon of the Sea. tonight, I will

sing you the Seven Sleepers, safe in their cave & fashion

a lantern from glow-worm tails steeped

in rainwater-- there will not be

a single place dark or unhappy.

15.

in the austere cemetery behind

the Moravian Gemeinhaus, the

dead are buried with their choirs,

rather than with their families.

thank-you

for the frivolous soapdish & the contrary, cranky

flowers; they suit

me.       & surely the image

on this card has some

sort of curative powers (peacock

in a bottle, stringed

instruments, et al).

16.

the whole of salt keeps me

up at night.        this morning was hot coffee & medlar

marmalade. improbable columns

of rose-light. a patch

of blue & the basil

is showing signs. it never fails. is that

portentous, or merely noteworthy?

I am in need of some sage-like advice; you

are in need of some supernatural

chicanery. we will both make due

with tea.               I knew a story, once,

about a phoenix & a carpet. the story is indeed

a little difficult to believe. still, you

might try.

17.

just as the sun rose, she saw a wave

of yellow light surge

from the trees & become a multitude

of canaries, which rose

in the sky & circled

& scattered.        all

of the city's canaries, she imagined,

had met in the park

before daybreak, & were returning

to their cages. she made no effort

to interpret her vision.