Parading

I have made this place around you.

her brain, bone, and the dangerous shreds

This morning’s garden filled with snow

While seraphim burn

a beaked mask, a braided mask, here’s a mask

It mandates while we wake or sleep, and asks

Of some enchanted land we know not where,

the true nature of poetry. The drive

the late sun

no ledge to climb up to—like a swimmer