Clay faces and windowsill geraniums,
declensions of latin nouns
escaping the open door.
Lilacs swarming up the adobe walls
left this purple underline
among the scrawlings of my mind.
Out deciphering the past, I find
unmarked words and bridges
thrown out carelessly at every crossing,
in water birch and other foreign tongues—
they muddy the old pond
beyond the smoking-shack.
And from paperback, from The Odyssey,
scribbles on the sun there
flattened out, like beaten gold.
Box Elder bugs,
tiny amulets of orange and black,
charm back the wistful memory
of lilics and latin grown wild—
feeding on the clay, the Homer.