The sun rises late in this Southern county. And, since the first thing I do when I wake up is go out into the world, I walk here along a dark road. There are many trees. Also, shrubs and vines—sumac, the ivies, honeysuckle.
Coming home with the last load I ride standing on the tongue of the trailer, behind the tractor in its hot exhaust, lank with sweat
Do you hear as if in a far away room down a narrow hall in another part of the hotel
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-
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.
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.