Gas Lights the Wayward
One theory is blood roots
dare you to lie still. Life,
in the ground, is waiting to grow over
every argument. Modern epitaphs,
all zeroes and commas, emphasize
perception.
On Tuesday the low tide exposed bones
sure to bleach by mid-summer. Boats,
in need of paint, gape like beached perch.
The notion of rain befits a documentary.
Every inch of black crepe` is on
backorder.
A rusted symbol of lucky fishing
props up the fence.
Dry stalks, transplanted,
promise flowers to the lip
of the leaf, nearby sunflowers
research the meaning of names.
Pre-dawn crows hammer the sky
with mating calls. Young skunks
parade through the intersection
in a company front. Memory
and instinct measure the seasons
for fires.
The bride of Christ strings
spent tear gas canisters
behind the wedding car,
pulls into the funeral lane
flashing high beams,
in a cloud of exhaust.
