Spiderwort, the begs-
to-be-said: Fat of the summer,
off at the crack of the fat
of the bat. A pair of grosbeaks
feed in a hackberry tree
so lost in it all they have
a sort of kundalini air.
Orioles prefer the goatsbeard.
We watch the slow horses trail
the way Baudelaire, a Frenchman
who followed you through,
watched the clouds: a file
of chestnuts and flashy bays plod
across a meadow, drift?
it seems like hours, head to tail
past a clutter of fallen cottonwoods,
disappear up a cool box elder draw.
Then we watch the clouds.
Copyright © 2005 Merrill Gilfillan
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.