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.