The lettuce long bolted to exotic
headdresses, beanleaf riddled to ribs,
I find them beneath tatterdemalion
leaves: little exclamations,
not the bludgeons of August
left on friends’ carseats,
but the plants’ final nudges,
green and gold, and patty pans
like the minor gears of some natural
machine-which I brush with garlic oil
and grill briefly, and eat for
themselves alone. Tasting how well
they’ve survived root borers and slugs,
days of blue, unmoving air,
I think back along the vine
to the first watermelon-tigered leaf,
the seed-shell riding its edge,
and beyond to the flat seed
with its journey packed in,
as deep as anything.
Fall Squashes
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