I don’t know, messenger
descending, darling
of my God (or maybe yours) whether in the medlar
orchard where the fledgling warblers
cry, fading towards evening—
I don’t know whether in the garden
where the acorns patter down and beyond the wall, airily
floating, the catkin tassels curl
from the hornbeams lining
the breakers’ foaming edge, a sail
cutting that diadem of underwater
reefs either black on black or shining brighter
than the first trickling star—