Fragment

1.5.13

I want to write a trumpet vine voluntary

For a January noon when the bone-

Colored canes spilling over the arbor

Into emptiness on a background of holly

Leaves which catch cloud-filtered sun

In their wassail bowls are where one

Cardinal alights calling someone

Unseen telling her that among

The dry bones he is a living

Carbuncle a splash of warm blood

Calling chip chip against the dismal

Air crying this dead wood will bloom