Dusk shrouds me in its grimbo collar
skunk den and wildflower passage
along your torso. This thickening
whirling and shimmering among
the snappers of obelisks fill the pantry.
Who knows why she stayed with him?
My lovers have been painters, musicians, models.
Students prowling the night. Flying gravel.
Handbills gliding before a muddled bagpiper
submerged in misfortune.
The bounding main boils.
Her proclivity for milk
upon blueberries countered my central
beliefs about currency and obsessions.
Invoices fluttered their alarm drumming
in resonant havoc. Fear not.
Only recently did I concede
the capable home-canning
beyond zucchini and tomatoes.
Town council recorded this agreement.
To eat corn on the cob at a clambake.
Fill the hayloft. Make silage.
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