Signland
Cicadas tear the air to flitters.
Sew it together again
as if nothing had happened.
All the leaves of the locust trees
have been leached of greenness, burned
the brown of a penitential habit:
Brother Fungus does it.
Spectral mushrooms
bulging out of leaf mulch:
here, believe me, the resurrection
of the dead.
And what is the phantom raccoon doing,
staring us down by daylight —
little black-mask sadly lolling?
The signs are not propitious, though locked
two by two in turquoise glimmerflight
the dragon- and damsel-flies rise and fall,
thrusting and trusting each other
over water.
From Poetry Magazine, September 2006. Used with permission.
Sew it together again
as if nothing had happened.
All the leaves of the locust trees
have been leached of greenness, burned
the brown of a penitential habit:
Brother Fungus does it.
Spectral mushrooms
bulging out of leaf mulch:
here, believe me, the resurrection
of the dead.
And what is the phantom raccoon doing,
staring us down by daylight —
little black-mask sadly lolling?
The signs are not propitious, though locked
two by two in turquoise glimmerflight
the dragon- and damsel-flies rise and fall,
thrusting and trusting each other
over water.
From Poetry Magazine, September 2006. Used with permission.
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