porch talk prominence, back
woods affluence, tele-
streamed heat waves
fall sticky
on their rubber feet

advent—you’re landing
on the springs in last year’s
planning—thought
they’d have hours of minutes
to cross refer

but the service
is shaky
and the pastor’s gone
to georgia

and the thick red sky
thought she missed the last
train

so the titles and answers
run too quickly backwards
to ever believe
they might change

…
in moulded plenty rests a mis-
conceived notion of
the
rate they charge
to file and to
bury the dead

as many will scream
their part, silver stakes
in their hearts—please don’t
mind me; it’s the wind!

…
in august the bubbles take
a little more time to
freeze…

just give them the space
they deserve

future will warm their hands
calls from the black cellar
will teach them

the beauty they can bring
to this earth

they’ll fight different battles
and know all the answers
and come home from drinking by 10

and in all their soapy wet
crystal tears, scratchy necks
they’re sure to feel lucky
again