I used to live in “the country” in Elkhorn, CA. I was just thinking it would be fun to put a chapbook together on “country living,” which I say with full irony. Here’s a poem I wrote a couple years ago:
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 this 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.
Unbearable lightness of dog
and cat love. Then have a coffee.
And M. is sick with a cold. Chloro-
phyll will not rise; ground props up
weed skeletons and rocks, towhees
peck for seeds dropped from
the feeder. Sun goes down garishly
the way we like it. Flashing
Then it’s dark again, and the oaks
(the cakes) 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.