In the star-lit clear between an evening rain

and a yet long-coming thunder I sprightly gained

a wish, a breeze, a tree’s twig-tip, then fire-

light, and their house cat’s warding eyes.

Still – and susurrant – was her bailiwick:

high in the vault, an old and lead-

camed window governed the posted bed,

the corners of the room, the lengths and the widths.

Seven rings its sigil, in measured knot:

a charting of celestial clockworks, a plot

against which to mark the passing of the moon,

that laced with silver the shadowed room.

I stretched my borrowed limbs, unfolded out

the basket-keep of abcostumed clothes

into the interaulic repose.

There were some subtle magics to be wrought.

My breast’s too warm for tales of brownie’s tricks.

I played not prankster but executrix

to their will to more elemental craftworks, to jar

some virtuous grantings out their governing stars.

So here you are asking me to shed my gown?

So as above then so below?

Give substance to the sounding? No.

Those rites were already performed, through the up and down,

by the slow, attentive measuring of the clock,

and with gloves (that tasted not of gin but of bock)

now folded upon the desk. Below them, a tower

of books: the first work of the hour.

High upon that eruditic hill

an oak and skull-bone chalice sat.

(However did they come by that?)

The books were stacked too high: it had must spill.

I hid the dozen stones contained within

except the lapis and carnelian,

which I placed before the balcony’s ten-paned doors –