Working Poem Notes 1
In June our pond nearly dried completely.
At the end five pits remained, nesting thick streams—
the last buzzard tracks lead out to circle
a surprising tomato vine and green-grey ropes rising
through separating boat boards.
The old sun was blacking and bleaching fish bones,
exoskeletons that fell and failed to stretch after changing.
When it rained, it poured frogs with throats welting,
tree frogs through the cat door and sunroof: July pooled
in a sweet tea sheen over the tall-shooting grass:
Rose to life more mosquitos than anyone could remember.
In August the stink gave way to three gators, two moons
(one blue) and clouds of bats diving.
September was a sand-trap,
the stain of porch resin melting.