Thin wisps of black smoke lay low in the fields.
They disperse almost as quickly as they
Formed. Their haze in the tall grass that has gone
To seed. The smoke gathers thickest in the
Brown grasses that eventually die back
To black spots of earth bare like life in the
Old house with the odd shingles hanging loose
From long years of wind. She couldn’t help him
Or leave him now. But she can watch from her
Perch in the branches of the unkempt wood
Abutting the old property. She could
Float through the weeds and up out of the ground.
She could watch and choke him with her fumes. Cursed
To make him suffer for the love she holds.
By the time of the fresh green pine. The trees.
They stood in their full spring. In their tender
Branches. They reached straight up as if pulling
Some unseen mark. The years of new growth seen
Only with time to look. Both the new green
And the two men in dark suits. Of man. Birds
And eggs. Frogs. Mice. Rats. And snakes. Existence
Pulled out of their jacket pockets. Hidden
In plain sight. Circumcision. Prayer times. Day.
The sharp black and green parallel lines. Black
Copies of playboys. Off the top of my
Head, they don’t exist in nature. But they
State, come with us, the black and green of life
Your eyes can only pick out when it moves.
Zinfandel servants write of the black. The
Black. Because of minimum luxury
Insulation. Opportunity. Black
Reader knows how to spot the adaption
They turn like television gangsters
The Colonization view of open bails.
Neshoba Central softball team captured
Candidates who have a ballot Tuesday.
Convinced voters cast absentee ballots.
Time willing recount these madly in love
And the adaptations cause directed
Our love, ourselves. We love town punch. We are
Blue Bic, your black butler with years of
Audience while all unknowable.