The solitary molar of a streetwalker 
whose body had gone unclaimed 
had a gold filling. 

I  

O that we might be our ancestors’ ancestors. 
A clump of slime in a warm bog. 
Life and death, fertilizing and parturition 

Never lonelier than in August: 
hour of plenitude—in the country 
the red and golden tassels, 

I  

Things you said in drugstores 
when buying painkillers 
or at your tailor’s 

Rowans—not yet fully rowan red 
not yet in that tone they take on later 
of ember, berry, October, and death.