In Memory of James Broughton
by David Rigsbee

Now begins the long drift,
Sometimes turning, sometimes right,-
Though it scarcely matters-
That is matter's motion seen
Under the auspices of the imaginations
You imagined. I don't know
Which was the paradise: this
Inconstant perception of grace,
This flesh as bawdy as
The sow's ear of a magnolia petal
Turned to catch the western sun,
Or the silence of the garden
When evening had hushed
The mating birds. But I do know
It was paradise the trees stood over
When a cardinal's luscious flame
Was enveloped in the ancient green,
Made or found, as if something
Wonderful turned on the difference