Each could picture probably
with great care his brother drawing
the corded string of a watered silk bag
and mumbling to Basho above the keepsake
pay your respects to mother's white hair
now your eyebrows look a little white too
but all have turned instead to watch this child
a girl my daughter Simone
an astute migrant
skimming the stream of days
toted wherever she wants
to eat the dirt of inattentive towns
to arm wrestle as with
the blind & steal a stoic
shipping him home —
all have turned & run to her because
she has a spider on her neck she has
seen herself
though blindfolded by a cloud
the sun is a yellowjacket
drowning in a cup of coffee she carries
a spider in her hair
blond & blonder dear river.