The Ghost of Ida Warren
The morning brought embers
and coats thrown
on a bed, coins at a wall. And my heart
filled with red, red honey
and the sound
of water, a whole river
exchanged for paper and torn
so that the fish that swim the bottom
could be scooped into a pail. The sound
of trains sinking in an enclosed
space. The blind roar
of an apple tree in flames.
It is easy to say, “This field
follows the river for miles through the darkness.”