Menu Switch

Golden Hour in the Yard

By Logan Wei From Issue No. 7

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.

About Logan Wei More From Issue No. 7