Red Lilies

Someone has remembered to dry the dishes; they have taken the accident out of the stove. Afterward lilies for supper; there the lines in front of the window are rubbed on the table of stone The paper flies up then down as the wind repeats. repeats its birdsong. Those arms under the pillow the burrowing arms they cleave as night as the tug kneads water calling themselves branches The tree is you the blanket is what warms it snow erupts from thistle; the snow pours out of you. A cold hand on the dishes placing a saucer inside her who undressed for supper gliding that hair to the snow The pilot light went out on the stove The paper folded like a napkin other wings flew into the stone.