Passing down the line of trance in odyssey

on glassy sea with Sirens lifting their levitator

muscles at the felt edges of fate:

Mary Bell studies the nests of migratory birds &

every species preferred some special materials—

loving cemeteries, roofs, anywhere that outskirts meet in ancient rust,

grasses, mosses, bunches of hair in moving salt sea circles,

in sheer propulsion glowing like the circles parting for Circe.

On the shore’s eve grass, marine-green pines

breathe in & breathe out through bits of shells clinging to kelp

(any priestess does not have to be dead to speak)

Watching the emigration of birds, Mary could feel

the great sycamores Lucombe oaks clump of cedars

thinking it terrible to stand under great trees to say

“am I worthy of such glorious confidence?”

Murmurs-murmurs follow passing down the line of trance,

a bell striking again in the little shore woods, following the tail of a consciousness,

through bogs, mires, ferns into the city,

passing stray vascular plants, taking in, letting out, while

a trail of teachers stride from the library to the Grand depository (heavens

to Hedi)—the spines of books with hairy fibers growing

molds in violent gold for one who

devoted her life to the cuckoos stubborn in cages

along the whole southern wall of the garden