Children at play: as they
progress between the hedges
the leaves explode
under their naked feet;
their naked calves and buttocks
glow in the cold like magnolia petals.

The daring
of their nudity: each child
wears only a black
head-covering. They move
with a forced slowness,
bearing in a black hammock
the broken baby in a shoebox,
its body a fatty yellow. Nothing
is more real than this dead one.
They make no tracks
in the alley; the leaves
settle behind them.

I left her on the terrace,
gazing at the lawns
and waterways and shrubs, mirrored
beyond her silhouette in a dim
window. Inside her open blouse
her fingers scissored
her nipple: a string of spittle
joined her parted lips.
Thus, the glass swallowed her
and she entered the sky's grotto.

In the heart of the woods
where all alleys meet, the children
mount the steps of the shabby gazebo
and lay the baby
on the mosaic hubstone
within the ring of columns. I arrive
by a different path, to cry
with joy that love is not dead.
They scatter with shy laughter.