after Andre Breton

The chiaroscuro of nuance,
the vowels of my wife’s breath,

the soft drenching, the low
of the herd of Hereford across the field,

the light limning the pillow’s edge,
the kiss of bird song, the vermouth of quiet,

the cusp of my wife’s hands
holding a young rabbit,

the soft vowels of my wifeÕs breath,
the beading rain jeweling lines

in the woods on the reeds,
the blankets of old wounds

bundled into the shape of a nap,
the arthritic legs of our old dog, his nose

wet with blossoms, the sweet scent
of hay always the handkerchief

of remembrance, the long road
sleepy with the tirelessness of distance,

the vowels of my wife’s breath,
the embroidery of the angels,

the inhabitants of the grass,
the love we had that owned up to each other.