After the Grass

When the night herons are gone,
look for me. When you dream
in a room perfumed by tea olive,
pause at the margins. Remember

what you see. As the stars turn
toward fall, and you fall into midnight
draped in navy light, adjust your eyes,
follow the sea’s hum. You’ll see me—

hair loose, yellow scarf, your pea coat.
You’ll tell me to feel the splinter’s wound.
I’ll hang rosemary around your neck,
await instruction. You’ll say to barter

for your soul. I’ll offer two pounds
of sea glass and a wood duck’s wing.