On the street at midnight, I hear
a hatbox latch fall open
in an attic closet, and then
the silence of Alexandria.
Even low clouds' dark stucco seems
applied by the drowsiest journeyman.
The fire hydrant stares
from its tricolor at a branch
fallen in the street.
A nail punches antennae up the chaain,
a great excursion to the loose
bold where a little water drips.
Each morning, I checked the radiator
to see what it had been singing
all night into the drip basin,
then pulled on my child-wardrobe
of corduroy, flannel, and moon boot,
and walked gently in the cold
to bring wild birds breakfast
before mine. Each morning,
I had to clear the snow away,
whether new-fallen or drift,
all the way down to dead
leaves and grass. Out of a blue
coffee can, cold through gloves,
I proured thistle, millet, cracked
corn and splintered sunflower.
Each morning, the Latter-Day saints
living across the street would file
to their station wagon as I poured.
I only had the dusting away of white,
that setting-out seed for no harvest.