If, in summer's dalliance of screen doors

there's a warp on the last board

so nothing closes right,

you are evasive, aslant,

Why do I take up the you burden

carry it all day, suppose

these quibbles will dissolve

in evening's chilled soup?

How is it that across tables, yards, long roads

next towns, cities, the sea

the mass and graining of everything

winds back to you?

Turn over any stone:

after the leaf and downpour

after the feather net of tent moths

the maples in final fade

It is you again in the settle, in the cry.