—some trotting and tripping frail guests,
others elegant.
All of them moved through twilight's shell
with stones

and cedar needles in their manes. They know what I need
to live—to spend entire nights
edging toward my moorings. I know

exactly what is happening to you.
Finally, to want to carry the day
somewhere else. Where things dance on one leg,

where there is a Newfoundland dog
for every drowning child. I have been comparing things—
and don't want to tell anyone.

For example, your birthday party on the scaffolding
where a child burned in the sun, and the pitch-dark garden
filled with cats and snails. And I know why
these things only happen to you. It's because there's no finishing.

Because you can't be sad about the lost one, or too happy
about the new one. Later,
you will try to get away, but you won't.
It's tremendous.