Late Notes

BUCKEYES HAVE FALLEN, still shiny.
Lost 3 trees this autumn to the wind & dry.
First frost Oct 10th. Some rain while I was away,
week before election. Obama sign still hanging
on barn - no one took it! Tonight the taurus moon
rose in a lapis sky, like a bucket full of gold spit.

Fall Hunger

The deer have thus far eaten
the Valerian (a sedative), the Motherwort
(a heart tonic), and entirely all of the Italian
Basil (a popular Calaveritas intoxicant).
They are now getting to work on the Angelica,
who happens to be the guardian of my
garden, so they'd better watch it.

Naked Ladies & New Birds

Through the walkingness of evening
two new peacocks step inside the cerulean
footcreases of their forebears & rustle up
astonished bugs. Yes it's true:

Cousin Casey has brought back
the totem animal of this town. And already
the male is risking life & wing to admire
his plumage in the car bumpers. Keep
all chrome away from him.

In the last two weeks I've been robbed
& rear-ended, and someone marauded
my sugarbaby watermelons. I feel sorta
like a marauded melon myself -- seedy,
pulpy, cooked by August.

So water & belongings retreat. The creek
pulls in like a pantleg, dangling turtles.
Rocks the color of fog. A sift of wind.
On the edges of dried things naked ladies
pose, whose muscular pink flowers seem
to erupt fully-formed from leafless stalkings.

And there are still blackberries, whose roots
once cured an entire Indian village of dysentary.
Above-ground they form walls, viney railroads
ferrying fruit, & also fortresses for the coveys
of quail who land in them at nightfall,
wheeling, musical.

Hanging laundry at 11, the moon
red as a pink tomato: I put on
a damp dress while I fold.

As the old yarn goes, "It's 107
in the shade and there ain't
no shade--"

Well, today there wasn't
any shade but that's because
there wasn't any sun.

Smoke snuck in
like a gray wildcat, drove
all color outta town.

But hot enough to suck
water from the creek's
mouth, straight.

Dancehall Garden

Will the Last Person in Town

please put out the lights?

There is a strange quality after a party.
No people, but still the sound of speaking.
Flattened parts in the grass as if deer had
slept there. I wander through the garden,
on a lazy scavenger hunt for glasses, plates,
cowbells. I find some in the lilies. But the full
& lonely feeling makes me want to keep these
things where they are, to leave the tablecloths
on the line. A mysterious dog ambles through,
and both of us wonder where all the people
have gone again, the ones who came back
for the longest day of the year - to chew their
wine, sip their blood sausage, & do the work
it takes to make a place. Thank you.