Copper on the roof,
tiles in the bath like baby teeth
like squares of seashell.
Hot sun in the window
but it is September,
it is leaving.

Water comes up
at the back of the yard.
It smells of sulfur,
a cool volcano stirring

On the trail
cisterns of pink stone
smooth, another gray
with a slim faucet,
things you’d find
on the hutch
in the hall, in catalogs
are in the woods, collecting
running over even
in the dry season.