Nutmeg Song

Who's there? Have you pits ground as that else
we passed on those fern traders from out south

who taught us to turn letters? For a paper mouth
I've used Henry's latest on the Taj Mahal & elm

he wants planted for (or was it, rather, instead,
a sycamore?) spring. India & still he takes a cab.

Do you know what I feed this thing? Only crab
berries & loose dumplings. Fingers in my head

fell all over the kitchen cloth & it became clear
I've been long alone here. I won't soon off.

& since you've gone I've got nerves & a cough
to scab over that neat white cloth folded near

which is what you got on stars says to myself
in a gasoline dark we can leap the high shelf.