Fanfare of pipes, the clangor marking home—
up too early, I settle old scores with myself,
each crossed out loss a speaking chimera,
your cinquecento flower drawings,
opening their mouths. Yesterday, the sand
violet, then aquamarine, the Coast Guard
turret a behemoth Bastet, cats’-eyes
dim against dusk’s lid of cloud cover.
But what’s a compass with no compass rose?
Truro, Starksboro…the omphalos
of old place names; the dog, trembling
at my feet, knows not to leave the car
for fear that she’ll be left behind. Her remit—
to love whomever touches her.