Convertibles have couched upon one another, flat and identical, while among burnt and rusted doors a slashed seat sprouts grackles. In my soapskinned mug the draught's head withers. The ventilator belches forth no fumes, and drunken jokes spear the cigar-ash air. Filled ashtrays overflow like mushroom gardens untended, their heads toward some flickering light. A moth floats lazily, Doubling itself over pondwater.
Leafage splits the mossed-over surface That moves slowly, unwinding Like threads from a shawl.
From the wren's nest Adamantine with new eyes. Along the outworn path frogs rest Under shaded stones, Their tongues licking at horseflies, While light commands Sound and searching, wind and comfort. And in the thickest of woods chainsaws hum like bees.