Nothing makes me live
more in the moment than to
take an Italian train.
Oily duck birth, shell
a cracked, gleaming world, stained legs
hazels, mice furrow.
Slowly, I become
Louisiana swamp land,
uncharted gators.
Rotten splinter burn
in the foxgloves and zinnias
the leaves call home wet.
The poodles got dead.
Why did she tell us that?
What vanishes?
Water to the never here.
Aunt Max in the black dirt.
Absurd cat banished
Tabby colors cold varnish
pennies coppered her mouth.
Pie-making is lost art.
The lich-gate needs something?
A little sin, good gin?
Sundays in the out
buildings court the octagons
of wire fences, wink.
Like a good-rumped horse
he trotted to the dust pile.
Hard rain and oatcake.
The swallows above,
some kind of tiny-lunged
machine. Grateful swoop.
Butter ripe and cashewed.
Go for the fatty side dish.
Who wants ham hock?
No moments go without.
She had legs like going on.
Again, I become
fallow field in a three crop
system. The watched pot.
