Here hedges are upholstered, each cobblestone
has an appointment, greening boughs aspire
in vain to Tudor style while even ramblers
know their place. And yet, we saw hibiscus
in high alarm, cat-slunk shivering it.
Coyotes invade. They claim to be the truth.
Black bears nose the bougainvillea, moving
eastward, indiscriminate, original.
Our sinks back up, our toilets will not drain,
our nature disobediently tends toward nature.
But we will have no blame, for we attend
our garbage as we always have, bury
and send away what could not prosper Here.
In children's books we keep foxes and mice;
where are the Apaches to back us up?
Logically we sleep though not in comfort
these days. Our wives keep turning in our beds
like roasting meat, the stones call out to us
campfires fringe the Merritt. In our kitchens
pasta forks bare fangs, pans hang like scalps.
One sad apple
6 years ago