Right Over Left

How, when warblers ducked

for a day’s stippled seeds

did she forget,

tie her kimono right over left,

and so arrive in the world of the dead?

And why, as she faded there with gown and sash

into snow under an old moon,

did the last thought drop from her head

like a white, falling petal?

We supposed she’d forget again,

and clouds in the shape of weltering ships.

How then would she know us?

A warbler peddles one silken bolt.

How close the naked sound in our throats?