For Those of Us Who Persist to Contemplate Magic in a Damped-Down World
You tell me about the loose tongue
that lets you snow-shovel heaven
as if there is no tomorrow
no world breaking
and the black night holds
every vestige of the moon’s
sweet cakes like sorghum in
a consummated field.
In October nothing anguishes you
not the leaf fall
the letterpress of happiness that
stamps lust on our palms
not the pumpkins wheelbarrowed
and carted away
their faces that will be carved up
propped out on porch stoops
displayed as an emblem
of how desecration can shine.
