i have returned! and you have always been

in the unmown bank of grass beyond the house of my neighbor,

visible through winter, your lean-to and the adopted pilings

of your enclosure giving ramshackle comfort. i mean come on.

what more could we ask for this spring than unbent orange tulips,

the woodthrush so modest in the neonspit forsythia,

and the emergence of further goats! not peace. not peace.

not hope. endurance maybe. do not hide from me, goats,

one black, one white, evergreen in your interest,

snakeeyed and kind, season by season, in the world’s clover.


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