OUR DAYS my brother in the tree leaning over our house sleep that came on us suddenly there were little terrors and rainpots in the attic for the leaking roof swallows skimming over clover with their turns and dives and crossings traced out a name no a map to a treasure dug out of our days of labor and ice cream no it was a likeness of my harm effort and laughter reduced to their strokes in air that pure art followed by tidy birds going after the small lives that jumped from our hay