How, when warblers ducked
for a day's stippled seeds
did she forget,
tie her kimono right over left,

and so arrive in the world of the dead?
And why, as she faded there with gown and sash
into snow under an old moon,
did the last thought drop from her head

like a white, falling petal?
We supposed she'd forget again,
come back, we'd find her swinging
loose sleeves of laurel oak

and clouds in the shape of weltering ships.
How then would she know us?
A warbler peddles one silken bolt.
How close the naked sound in our throats?