In a public park, fringed by wilderness.
No marker there, no sense of what occupied space—
the invisible drift that caused my heart to break.

Never before such a distant season of derision. 
Across town, the silo siren heralds an encore to panic. 

Even the moon has its own snail,
Gnomic, removed
Under miles of water, its pale

They put a roof over our heads.
Each tile was a slab of clay laid over a
thigh and bent until it dried bent,

To feel you knock
your radishy
fist against the wall

Contaminated air, poisoned ground,
Infected bodies in the cemetery, and the dead
Scattered in the fields in grievous wars,

The husband wants to be taken back
into the family after behaving terribly,

It need not be a desiccated wreck 
of boards, completely uninhabited, 
adobe bricks regressed to mud, hay. Heck,

The guinea hen of Manalapan
has a wattle like a turkey, but cut short.
Her feathers have spots like streaked paint.

It was not male, who galloped
across a divided 
landscape, or female.