Adelma (Harrisville, N.H.)

the dry-cut lane among the republics

untouched, & then—

see the buds of mute respiration—

in high definition—

one could feel Calvinism

almost affirmed—

i.e., to be hereis to settle

among preexisting algebras,

to filter through, if not

to filter—not to be the active agent—

then again, the urge or summons

to dress each wound—

the chemical flush, the interrogation—

those from the camps

are here too, I remind myself—

speak the language of numbers

in which souls partake—

(because numbers bear no wounds,

neither do they

dress or bind,

in this way they are like the angels—

(or is it poor form

to invoke the angels here,

in the presence of

such glorious machinery—

At the banquet I sat next to a woman

whose father

died, rich, & was buried here—

slender lapping of anguish

& its Arctic monodies

between which

the hawkweed, bruised, takes flight—