Clearly they were

allowed in     to peck, to mis-

take kernels for cobs, for

whole fir groves grown:

small for big, till tall lilies

as whole men

made their heads

felt,

as headlamps, worn warily, turn

towards

& plume dust-fits into angels    we think

moths passing cameras are our

final lovers

blooming at form

those shapes

of course scare us for what

kind of body, fault,

yield

would not we find,

at the early edge, felt

with the cold toe, impossible?