One craves a rare Kobe steak
after months of nothing but smoke,
maybe an artichoke and fat
gutterings from the broiler.
Where have the birds gone?
It’s time for the crows to open their beaks
and scream bloody murder.
The moles are cagey though,
and scramble for the exits.
How long ‘till the chainsaw falters?
The white dogwood
assaulted by sapsuckers,
locks life in its roots.
What’s happened before will happen
again—the bloated behemoth
in his overcoat stuffed with angry cats,
strangles the orchard, douses the sparrows
with petrol, sets fire to the ice.
The hole in the house on the hill
suppurates— an open wound.
Loggerhead turtles joust on the rocks.
But here, we can endure anything,
prepare for earth’s orgasmic ripple
to tear down the trellis, flip magnetic north,
and staunch our lacerations
with a patch of purple wisteria.
