H o w i e G o o d
S u m m e r ' s E n d
A swirling cloud of rocks & gravel
sweeps along the ground,
& before I have time to develop
a plausible theory about it,
the woman staggers up to me,
an eye missing, a hand gone,
a brittle blue flower tucked saucily
behind her remaining ear,
& I suddenly know of what the future consists:
a certain unrest in all there has been,
the desire to rescue scrap
& then serve celebratory champagne
to saints & alcoholics,
an unpremeditated encounter
at the breakfast table with an apple, pears,
a heart cut with a cake knife.