Two men, one in a grey square
coat and grey hair, one
in an ironmonger's paler coverall
(pastor and caretaker?),

are hustling folding chairs
into church. The church
is not there in summer behind
my backyard maples.

The chairs are pink-beige and
this is the first
Sunday of winter. A saxophone
is celebrating

alone downstairs and I think
of Amelia-Anne, big
goony girl, stockings down-gyved,
seated betwixt

a sack of goodies and her
block-faced nurse
by far-off Colwyn Bay. Today
the Welsh sea steams

just like Lake Michigan. The waves
have piled a step
of ice, dirty but green,
and Anne and Nanny

blow toffee-flavored breath out
from red nostrils.
The saxophone is stopped, and
I clatter bright

and blue-fingered over the glass
stones and glance
sidelong up to the esplanade
(the rail, the bench)

and up her flannel skirt, but
she grips her mittened
paws tight in her thighs and
croons and rocks

herself. Later, a cop accosts
and asks: "I saw you
throw stones at gulls." (At girls?
I think.) "I never!"

But he says: "Well then don't.
There is a law against,
they are protected, I saw you,
don't let me see again."

And now I see stones shoot from
my opening fist,
see them hang fluttering
in wintry zeniths

and zap through papery fan-vaults
of expectant churches,
the nursemaid bursting like
a bag of cake-crumbs,

see the waves gathering broken
seagulls and gangling
Amelia clutching her goodies.
We meet downstairs

where the saxophone bleats.
Her eyeballs roll
at the shadows of men on folding
chairs in cellars,

who chew cigars and spread
their cards in silence
(handguns and switchblades hang
cold in their pockets);

but we are alone. I reach
to greet her (girl
suddenly chic), but my hand goes
off and her feathers fall.