Jetties extend sturdy gangplanks
to the rows of evacuated bungalows
the rigid gulls coast over. In the wake
of another winter tracing your yard,
one skimpy hedge. This season’s siege
is on. The porch light makes all the blues
green, the greens blue, your fingers
yellowish. Your fingers have a weave
where you press the kitchen screen.
All afternoon the propped sweet
potato sprawled from the cloudy glass
you toyed with, and in the level darkness
I could see how privacy was torture,
my visit, a kind disruption of trees
in tall grass. Now we joke, dismantling
a lobster. The butter grits. You could say
I’ve a talent, I can locate
isolation on any map.
Everywhere I step is a staircase
to sabotage. You will know. When I survive,
this leaf, here, bends toward light.
Landing off Season
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