-
-
- There are things to
be done.
- Little dirt birds
flutter
- in dust. Bustle and
bathe
- in dirt for want of
rain.
- I pass through the
front room.
- Tired windows wedged
open
- for weeks at a time.
- Etta say's, looks
like rain, Margaret.
- She should know.
There are things
- to be done. Alarmed
birds
- ignite into the humid
blue womb
- of sky. We are alive
- in the spine of the
snake
- and waiting for rain
- any day now. We have
to eat
- early tonight. There
are things
- to be done. Thunder
comes. His shovel
- leans on the shed in
no particular hurry.
- Pudding-eyed dogs
roll this way
- and that in the
beetled dung
- of suffering.
Preacher's on the way,
- he's coming. The
rocker lulls itself
- to sleep on the
porch. A teasing breeze
- sniffs at clothes
dead or dying
- on the line. The
kettle shrieks.
- Things to be done.
Now the rain
- slams down. My
chickens laugh
- like lunatics, flap a
scratchy
- dance in the yard.
Etta's knees
- are never wrong.
We'll eat early
- tonight I take up the
cleaver.
- Turnips and tails in
the soup.
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