From "The Pomegranate"

My mother's washlines terrace summer air,

Even as flocks of visionary sheep

With shirts together, shorts together. Her

Ideas of order trouble me in sleep.

And sometimes in that golden country where

She keeps a weather eye on hem and seam,

She bids. me shut the windows of a car

Airtight from heaven and begins to scream.

I start my visits in a blaze of love,

Nectar of oranges and homemade cake

Till the enamel of our smiles wears off,

Laying bare truth neither of us can take.

Once more I feel that most admired coast

Recede. I taste her anger in the roast.