When I woke out of my reverie

(thank you Jesus thank you Jesus thank you Jesus
the scans weren’t worse and make my life
a testimony to your righteousness)

the oaks that swerve up East Rock Park
announced their white-barked symmetries
against the winter-darkened marsh
with such insouciance

I believed not only all of this was real

but that the clouds’
lavender croissants of vole fluff

such     soft      smudged          smut

might heal

not just us but the whole deal, this

Connecticut, by Constable