Out on that not-acre-or-so,
we build a fire & answer no calls
save the goose, the owl, the scarlet
tanager. Me thumbing a beertab, you
echoing an elegance I can’t catch.
I ask how you listen so good. How
you pan this noise from that, the squeak
of a swallowtail from a black ash
creaking on its axis. Hush, you say.
The ground’s beginning to gather
its leafcover. A chill rummages
like a child fisting skittles. I flee
a late-season paperwasp so poorly
my glute blues—an aurora of blood
my body lets go but doesn’t really let go.