Sunday, November 9, 2014

A Yogurt Plain Old

she left me with a yogurt. she knew i preferred plain.
dropped me off at the roadside, low clouds somersaulted
over plains strobed sun, on and off white field grass like
a moving picture.

a wake of buzzards gathered in ash by
the interstate sign which looked pastel as a reverie
or tumid flesh. leaves collected like a pile of rugs
i sidestep; take off my sandals,

adjust to the rocky path. i walk. home.
a burst wood shed gleams like a grand piano
in a foyer with an open floor plan. i defend
the sanctity of the individual. picnic as you can get,
musing on where once stood corn now razed
like a crude haircut.
i notice i am making fists. bareoot trees and shrubs
i make my hands noncommital inhabiting a bigger
world. something shimmers several paces ahead.
looks neon, lodged alongside flaccid branches
wrecked by a hailstorm.
curious, i advanced towards what turned out
to be a spoon in the road.
i know buckskin relates to the flourescent lights
with Catholic charity. only miracle he’s seen was
a rabbit who refused to die. it kept house
in a hole right under a hawks nest and actually
swam across the creek, which was technically
ar river times of the year just by girth,
despite buckshot, shots of all kind.
i know buckskin relates to the clouds with a
silver shuddering under a brown wool coat.
i will have black mascara on the day his
paraffin skin unfolds to purple peonies
bursting forth like asparagus stalks and i can
say what is well ends.
why is it i keep finding things in the grass?
he kept finding spoons and forks. some given
him by people who did not know he possessed
set already. Cambodian. Malasian. to him having
not been captured in North Vietnam took him

into his wood habit i would not break like
a red mouth sun. boar spear made of solid
hickory. white pines about to fall off brown
crags. dark shapeless zombie wail lets the
mouth of sky lets clouds to a franchise of
ash. 25 pounds on my shollder balanced

casually on one of my thumbs. not that i would
take down a boar but that i could effortlessly
walk with such a schtick. hickory hedge iron
he has, we stare down the holler. they
might fly off.

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