Evening

Evening,
above the house
below the eves
of the barnyard in the sky –
Or in the fish house,
rafters looking down –
into the lobster tank
into the late afternoon I could lie –
stomach above the heads
above sea level.

Summer,
to hide in the barn
above suspicion
of the long autumn,
dark corridors
of some distant hillside
House,
to wrestle with transition
from the forest to the orchard
of innumerable plans
all to be plucked
and hung to be dried
In the hot,
old tar attic
of some passing house
of some uncertain history
Of this I think,
in a secret straddle
between childhood and the mind.


. . . . .

in this humidity

the only thing happy
in this humidity
is the baguette.

three days fresh
on the kitchen counter
we don’t even have to bag it.
. . . . .