It's a morning of snow and crows storming the bare treetops
As if they invade the eves of a burned-out cathedral.
Where are the children? A ludicrous posture of mourning
Haunts me and makes me stupid. Age makes me stupid.
The loss is not even mine. It's envy or lonesomeness
Or the recurring tricks of failure, like the left shoulder
That gave out and spilled coffee on me and left me staring
Around my kitchen, saying not, "Stupid, what's wrong
      with you?"
But, "Where are the children?" as if the crows carried
      them off.