city bars, a glass of decent red.
as inclined as anyone to the subtleties of juice
you argue the problem is not the fruit
but the feral kernel. leaning from a future
in an architectural paper bag
you sway, cannot be swayed, dig for light
one thought leading to another. journeyman
tropes restless in your head, craft
as strong as a leaf.
home slides to a different topography.
cobwebs for each return, a mud-dauber plug
in the keyhole, eggs cached in living
spiders, the termites’ implacable tick-tick
in stumps and walls. this is the place
to stretch limbs straight. walking on stilts
hands, clouds you follow wasp-drone
to where alien trees invade. the doppelganger
beautiful in every other way.
in this valley where the sun banks gold and flares
each concussion of pink, you are out with the chainsaw.
peach trees felled, wasps still droning
in the blossom.