Harvest time in the Holland Marsh.
Her foot rolled the lemon
on the deck
back and forth
Manny, when will the frost come?
He sat on the step
and picked the dirt from under his nails
Beyond the path
a grove of trees
bore fruit of another kind.
As yet unknown to those who harvest,
a plague of worms had already infested the flesh.
The baby stood, arms akimbo
before the screen of the door
and swallowed the world.
As the traffic builds on the highway,
eyes open for the first time.
They see the inner digestion of active life
in slow motion. And the static whales of civilization
plotted as a crown on the horizon
erupt from the dusk to perfect certainty.
Our goal and duty,
written in the smut of coal-fire,
is rape as men and masters,
the glorious id of idiots.
See the smear of crushed body on the road,
a tragedy of an egg.
Truth circles in the air above.
Manny, take the garbage out.
It smells of heaven.