To your right, pectorals make a pasture – shirtless
pushups oontzing ceaseless under the sun’s
slugging plunge. The last of daylight pumping
obliquely over the world. To your left,
pull-ups, like men on bobbins. Two clouds loll
overhead, in their perfectly clear boats,
and communities of turkeys, elm trees,
and dragonflies span the rococo fence.
Caterpillars relax like preposterous toothpaste.
And trash stews, practically sarcastically,
In the black plastic basket – eau de parfum.
Fiery. Almost a hot weather advisory.
Forgive me. I’m naming all this blatant beauty
beautiful. Stuffy weather. Mushroom weather.
Music sloshes from a radio roosting in a window,
staticky, and a little summer-muddled. Not God
or country, thank god. There’s distortion and ugly,
melody, and the usual decays. Even the sarge
slows for some campy babble. Deer pass by
with nothing but their deer thoughts, like followers
of St. Francis, obsessed with the knowledge
that darkness will come. The social worker
is arrested for all that was done, and done,
with number six seven two five eight oh one.