Autumn starts when the trees give up drinking.
An appointment is made
in the ditch of Lake Mead
and the hairy hands,
tented on mahogany,
speak calmly,
which can only augur hell:
“You’re a snail who fears salt too well. Liquefy.
And don’t ignite
if you exercise.”
So I eat the whole box of tissues
and wrap piles of bramble
and wish you’d wish us
neither wood nor label.
Kiss me I’m sick!
But who kisses the roots
under the hydrant?
Text Jesus,
you contradict the good doctor;
the script reads clear: there’s no shortage of water.
***
Photo by Callum Blacoe on Unsplash
