the person that lays down and other poems

Among other procrastinations, I began compiling the poems in my new collection THE GENTIAN WEAVES HER FRINGES. It's nearly done, about forty poems. Here's one of them:

september’s escutcheon espied

o preparations of her vestments—
the gauze sun hides her nimble incisions—
winter’s surplice—
spring’s kirtle
the blank easel
composed ditty
we know fall’s ruddy scrabble will end in bone
slewn tattered dandelions
lying in their dark parlors
unnumbered alms for the necromancer’s saucy predictions
(the dandelion’s baffled pall long scattered aforetime)

*

o struggling rill
that ushers in the amethyst

******
In order to get Momo and Cecy to behave while I write (I feel terrible--I try not to write when they're home) I told them they could either go to bed or play hospital. They're currently under the dining room table (bumping against my feet) taking turns being the doctor and "the person that lays down."