It’s damned gorgeous today. Warm as spring,
dry as sandstone. In mid-winter. The goat
is dead. To the laundromat I must go. Clearly
clover will not green the field. That’s
California winter: green. Was, anyway.
G. has raked leaves over her infectious
bloodstains. Where once the blewits grew,
(orange-juicy edible fungus).
The clothes take for fucking ever
to dry. In the meantime, reading
a story about books. Then another
story about books and cats. And
have a coffee. And M. is sick with
a cold. And the chlorophyll will not
rise; the ground props up weed
skeletons and rocks, the towhees
peck for seeds dropped from
the feeder. Sun goes down garishly
the way we like it. Flashing
a phantom green.
Then it’s dark again, and the oaks
throw shadows, make a black
tunnel under which I skittle down
the road to snatch the mail. Yo,
bats, owls, goats: where are yooo. What
do you call home now. Give me
a little scare.