at the very least there were about fourteen of them crickets

 

     the boy

    on the corner

    full moon

 but for crows no leaves winter tree

    from DRENCHED THROUGH AT OLD AGE

       

       counting the age in crows

        at seventy-six they slip away

           the black of them near end of day

 

     in an alter-world

    these are your hands threading fireflies

    at a silent pace in an alter-world

    where blind replaces light thank you

    for your hands in times like this

 

       ah

       the butterfly

       not an actor

       

   

      in summer grass is

         a small child is

            a small tube of

               soft snow