It’s the gray of canning season rain,neither cool nor warm, and mottledwith feeble light.
This black sedan lies on its topon the kitchen window sill, its wheelsin the air, its battery drained,the oil trickling into the cylinders.
It was not death we came to fear but her life,her other birth, waking remade from the womb
of that disease. One leg was withered, a dragging-
The pang and clangor of pitch-dense woodin the stove and the odd, almost syncopatedpops of studs, joists, and rafters as they warm […]
In the alluvium ofthe hot afternoon,where the day’s clarities […]
At the lower fence line under the starshe hears what at first he takesto be the neighbor’s mare cometo investigate his apple pocket […]
Ruin
was rumored
to be rooming
up the roadwhere
a neighbor’s barn’dburned down.
The forecast had not predicted it,and its beginning, a calming, rumbled dusk
and pleasant lightning, she welcomed as harbinger
With a squeal, the alreadyotherworldly broadcaststuttered,scattered,leavingonly a tattered hiss.
In the patient, quiet museum, she is exhibitedclosed, indehiscent inside a glass casket,
reclining on her back, on hair long as her spine.