After the jostling on canal streets
by Carl Rakosi
and the orchids blowing in the window
I work in cut glass and majolica
and hear the plectrum of the angels.
My thoughts keep dwelling on the littoral
where china clocks tick in the cold shells
and the weeds slide in the equinox.
The night is cold for love,
a chamber for the chorus
and the antistrophe of the sealight.