An acre of sky offset by pruned branches,
apple thickets, full-fig asylum and the curve
of common sense earth make up his backyard.

In this he sees a garden, a partner, old
like the boxwoods, cup and saucer moons laced
with the aside of seasons. He turns the soil of reason,
tends the hourglass, praises the naked sun.

Rain comes in Sedalia, drenching cotton into skin with ardor.
Sweet manna, this thirst drawn through pores, a quick baptismal
of leaf to naked breeze, sun brown face to cloud
as his body takes the offering.



poetry

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