The orchard rinses white with tiny bones 

until there is nothing left but a wish 

to drag out mice curled deep in the tunnels 

and string them from a Sycamore. 

Tonight the young empty themselves 

in a football field, behind bleachers— 

their beautiful hands, ribs glossed by 

stadium light, then, slowly, as if still 

searching for something not there, return 

to the starry oval of their beds. 

Who are we if not images 

that betray us? The street is quiet. 

Snow begins in the leaves.