She comes to us like a tone,

a dance, the poet’s great Open:

possessing us, not the other way around,

attuning us to a new dawn of sound:


“What is it, what is it that is coming?”


Apparently this is how heaven

also works: a glimpse of it,

then much toiling, then a brief

darkness, then the rest of our lives


trying to recoup the initial

beauty: the repetition, the rotation,

all in, as a wise novelist

of the Bayou once portended.