He crawls through the mud. He is sweet and black earth,
he touches the gentle body of dirt
squeaks noises through the crocodile grass with nails
like a creek.
Do not crawl! I’d scream. You do not even have boots on, and your socks
are fine white cotton with a hole in the heel- but still
grass stains will stay there past July.
I light the candle to eat our salami.
I listen to grains, I feel a scream in the willow. Do not let the cold get to me.
I rest the setting sun in between my thumb and pointer, and I think.
It’s not real anymore.
It’s November
I am here at home. I am here in bed, there is
no grain.
The sheets are my creek,
there was never a fire or a fun, and there is no more wicker or picnic.
He’s gone. Goodbye stains and goodbye summer.
6 AM, a job, no candles,
So, I
Light the gas.
Pour three tired dreams into my coffee mug, don’t spill, they will not wash out of cotton.