For Luke, or Elizabeth's Dream
The kettle didn’t whistle this morning
But shrieked like a parakeet, yellow and cold
And somehow the wind shivered through my hedges
Of coreopsis and ragweed and thyme
Without sounding the xylophone stumble of the old tin chimes.
And sure enough, your shoelace announced you,
Slapping loose on the hardwood front hall, all rhythmic
And the clocks slowed to syrup
Right after nine
Like they do every time
When you pay your respects to your long-tidy bedroom
Raise up the hairs on my arms, and slosh the milk in the pail as you pass
With small feet, and familiar
Return to the graveyard and leave me a husk over breakfast to wait for your coming again.