Mosquitoes die in June, the heart grows strong on fat, ten inches of snow  falls in Mexico City, and the stone bird moves, sings. I’ve arranged things to end here, saying the name Vostock—that sable blade blue enough to slip right through your breath. White mulberry: I spent the better part of a morning watching it grow. A prayer: sunlight tosses into the room, but it is not good; a dove waits on a telephone wire, but it is not good; a sluice of cobweb hinges sunset into sunrise and a god is there, hidden yet watching. Last night I wrote ten poems in my sleep and the only thing that came with me to the surface was the title of the last: “Took a Fall.” Things that flew overhead today: pollen, a scrap of Stravinsky, two airplanes, an obese crow, thunder and more thunder. What time—sudden shifts in balance account for half of the spirit’s weather. To smell blood and maintain control. Dear pheasant: you are dead, they have pulled your feathers, gutted you, and tied your legs together. But this is not the end.