Tuesday, September 03, 2013


Turn every corner like a
dog sniffing after squirrels. Turn over
piles of autumn leaves
like a woman making a bed for a lover
coming home from war. Turn, old carousel
music echoing from the deserted midway. Turn
off the freeway at the last exit to Babylon. Turn up,
messenger from a distant mountain bringing
word of gold strikes. Start a rush.
Turn under stubble for winter rye, along with
shed skins of grasshopper nymphs and state-fair tickets
mashed to the ground by the first fall rain.
Turn, season. Change the weather.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside

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