Robert Lietz
		Wren       Sweeping her own outdoors      -- because the daylight's      soon enough -- Wren's    keeping clean      again      -- sweeping at noon      -- with      pains      kids schedule      mealtimes by     or break-times -- until the sidewalk cobbles bloom -- and the light    she finds      on the refrigerator casings      -- in the rooms upstairs above the cobbles     and the cheese shop -- on      last night's    cracked spine / the pages    ( opened flat )      she knows she must come back to      -- catching her eyes this afternoon      -- that shy from mirrors and supper scraps / from      the swirl      she sips -- from      the      last      aired taste      and      bottom of her goblet.       And here      ( in air )      -- among      the swaying binaries      -- her    sister's in touch    / in sympathy      -- with      Kurt laid down      -- with      words she had saved for Kurt      and      thoughts on      public      cloning -- but      not      for this air-link now -- not      with      a      thought so curved      -- and      nearer to the heart      ( today ) than      headlines ever were.       So Kurt's wife's sweeping the cheese-shop bricks straight to the tree-lawn      -- seeing him      walking      ( straight )      -- and      leaving ( she thinks )      his cache      of bottles safely      capped>>-- leaving    her lips      to curse the      likes      of single malts and ales      -- with what was a whisper once -- and      once      a steady hand -- to water the street      ( she thinks )      qualified by      gazes      -- remembering the bed they'd shared      -- when      choices were Kurt's      / were      no one's now       -- and       -- warming the ice cubes      some      -- forking this generous cut      -- when the      cuts      she'd dream      for      him left      work- arounds. *       And since the kids won't have that piece      -- since the evening's walk and waters were exceptions      -- won't      share these volumes now -- prefering      their own      grown sense                                        pictures       of someone else's                      } -- she adds                                        passions       her own good edge to it.      And sees the daylight redden      / fade -- its course      in      leaden words      -- and all      that      dreaming ever meant      -- sprawling      the way light      does      -- across the rugs    and      glass of Kurt's wife's cabinet. *       Tomorrow      ( she thinks )      the cheese will have to wait      -- and the mind      to wait      its comfort and surprising -- the hawk      of the mind      at play above      a downstate      Nazi      household -- freed      from      the souvenirs -- from the laughter's ping      -- when      someone mentions      trigger locks and      range-training      -- from      the ways the      women were to sit themselves by night fires -- listening to the train-tranced rails      -- to voices      that had no use for the cheese goods or      summer novels. *       Now there's the sound again.. And      now these      sounds she hears      ascend      from a dry cellar -- no    wonder      -- with what's come by      -- where she might find them next      -- with this      cellarful      of targets      -- equipped as      they'll      be for      all      the weekend sport and      weekday passions.       The      afternoon      ( she knows )      is way      too      short to      redirect. And      these      who have come shall      pass      -- be      gone before      she's      advertised a village yard-sale -- trucking      this      spooky gear      -- this awful      cross they'll find their uses for       -- these words they      will      surely      resurrect with cellar goods -- and      all      of      them      glad if      grieved      -- if ( abstractly )      moved by      the      care-lines Kurt's      wife's       meant in kind      for them.