Once I’d have begged the serious country witcheswhose cauldrons heave with zoological stewto spare me a dose of mischief sippedfrom a dainty brainpan. Imagine the hagsspreading through the cattails like an ugly rumoron moonless nights when toads sit engrossed,glad to put October in my bonesas earnest for the marrow out of themto thicken the gumbo they mumble overafter I chased the weathers of my stayup and down the Dylan Thomas hills.
And still I wonder, as the light slides downlike bourbon past the whiskered ridgesthrowing back sunset like there’s no tomorrow,if the frank talk of sinners who’ve perfectedtoo well the art of fancy talking,until it vanishes like a kind of stutter,would come to my aid at the precise momentI could no longer be saved, as if foretoldby the tremulous puddles studied so intentlyon long forgotten, rainy, leaf-stained afternoons.