Lineage Anagrams I
Pinned to the orchard, the alge-
bra of unfolded diapers drying on the line
and skyward brays a plane. Slack bees lean
and a car cars down the street, the cloth angle
of the small’s small day’s shadows lie
above the late-brown grass in the lee
season, and finally their children’s children lean
forward on archimedal chins and our genial
kin are sunned upon. Lawn mower, maybe drill, a nag
some ways down the summer block. Glean
the baby’s cry, the seas inside slackwater lag
in this place where I was a child, am a child, now the age
of the child’s parents. Another child nows in the gene
and its small shape in the bathwater is the el in angel.
Outside on the grass I listen up, and hear in the window’s leg
the child, a mother singing to the child, and an age.
