Spiraling greenbacks grate
across an agitated colonial boneyard
in premature outbursts.
I debate crossing the pliable skin
of superpatriot Mary Sunshine.
About to be buried
who whistles upon the choppers
of a startled bass viol?
Tidal flats surround a demure
mouthful of orthodontic jinxes
laboring under false expectations.
“I doe take to my sselfe the land where on
the Stone howse Standeth with one
Rod in bredth, from the uper End
of the stone howse,
on both sids the howse and land above said, is
given and apointed for frinds in the minestrey …
I say for there use that thay may be
in all times to Come Even for Ever.”
We support another town’s spaghetti supper
while a hurricane skirts the coastline.
Twilight chill invites wide-eyed clarity
or a veiling fog. Take your pick.
Do you hear thumping
in the orange and red fringes
of green forest? Some habits
play out better than others.
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Poem originally appeared in Nimble Spirit