Autumn starts when the trees give up drinking.An appointment is madein the ditch of Lake Meadand 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 igniteif you exercise.”So I eat the whole box of tissuesand wrap piles of brambleand wish you’d wish usneither wood nor label.Kiss me I’m sick!But who kisses the rootsunder the hydrant?Text Jesus,you contradict the good doctor;the script reads clear: there’s no shortage of water.
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