Grandmother’s United States washboard
Hangs on the wall as a lesson
From His Terrible Swift Sword

It is not this world, then, to blame, with its red
and blue stars, yellow pears, green apples
that carry a scent which can move you to tears.

All Saints’ over, the roast seeds eaten, I set
On a backporch post our sculpted pumpkin under the weather,
Warm still for November. Night and day it gapes

Up the mountain again three years later,
rocking forward like a burro.
Breathing hard in and out.

The truth is this bad been going on for a long time during
                                                                         which
they both wanted it to last.

Somehow the days take care of themselves.
Desire that feels as if it will scorch
The skin of wanting doesn’t get fulfilled

Summer was dry
but the farmers forget
and plow the dead stalks under.

No one but the prodigal returns.
Extravagance, the same as parsimony,
disguised a bent for pillaging oneself?

A fire truck goes by‚
  On its way to the station
With a low roar‚

Clouds scuffle and clinch in this March sky;
wind presses our turned collars to chin
and Chris casts his line against the grain.