Maybe dad was out sailing

Maybe dad was out sailing



  through windows of Firecoral
were bags of green shoes. Were newt-skinned eyelids blushed by wind.

Often, mother with glue-spined book over BWV:
three ravens guarding adeste fideles praying to the sweet chariot.
Often, too, sewing machine rumumbling through adjoining wall–
      then waking to new, purple dresses.

Before-light-mom in the morning.
Sing-swaying-mom with eyes closed.
Daughter in the cool, brown carpet-grass beneath the bookcases.
Daughter in the wind.       

The wind swinging the sail.
Dad’s face to the sea.