They be the nails of his
trampling foot, his
trod a light
Pod weaving
through the hedgerow.

She marks the day
on a tiny white card
not for the neiges, or
the calf that was foaled,
but that he, a Welsh
stranger. wished her
"Good luck and many years of happy playing,"
and it moved her to tears.

Sundays she licked oak pews
in prayer for them--
Armed with Rich Heraldry,
trained a Fine Cook for them-stretched
doll Tendons to Fret
a Viola aught envy--

Sent ten men riding
ten liveried men,
five Tailors, five Falconers
riding for them
in Blood Sport and Sallow
in Tiny Ant Valor.

Shame glitters
split sparrow
rolled in sugar
[size Poussin
or Pom-pom]
Dirty Joy Lord
and blest.

No Eye Rivet,
sinew slay
            hard light
no fixed anger
            in her Rind.
I just want to
            talk to you
lying mute
with the Pomander
in mute box, rapt—

[the Pomander]
lays his little script
            into her
I just want to
            scratch your symbol
says the Pomander
shined his Eye on her
O Poppet—

            my sorrow-acre.