Not a sky but a milk of ash,
more like a low clay dome
over these few houses and cars,
this snippet of road, the near
trees…we’re down to earshot.
Suppose no Jupiter in the south
tonight. No moon. World’s gone
small inside the smoke. Might be
a hope—to know close quarters.
Mosquito’s, pangolin’s, vole’s,
water strider’s—and all this
garden, its ponds, one islet, a dot.
The katsura, a maple, a backyard
sequoia erased in its height…
a squirrel’s circuit. A snail’s
range. Or that golden spider’s
thready oasis between fence posts.
A trapped yellow jacket, wrapped
in a tiny silk storm, suspended
a yard from that late white rose.
