At bay's side by the refinery, late
After-light fumes, blooms, smoky-grey
Bunch grass going pale. Sun-charged,
The honeybees repose between jobs,
But briefly. Let's say wild roses,
Pulled through hours soundless,
Rose from that flowering decay
Of bay silt, of oil taint and mud
Light, to spread like a smudge from
A blue or a many-hued center as
Death, fed up with it all, looks away.
Thrown to a corner of torn cyclone
Fence, piled up, the pipes and valves
Rust — junk perched upon by the common
Egret, poised on her six perfect toes.
And you — it is just here you might — may choose
To wander a long time, through clutter
Of thought, the skull's domed pleasure
Garden — roofed today absolute blue.
For Linda Watanabe McFerrin
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