THE DISEASE SEQUENCING HAS BEEN INITIATED
A branch belled with the intensity of river.
Flight choreographed for a time.
And then they just flew the fuck away in different directions.
Very few corpses are lonely corpses.
Skulls beveled by church spire.
Peezy had wolf paws.
Chair as restive pod.
Night contract its luminary into the narrow strait of their household.
Rank and estranged icecold tweeter in the terminal nadjus of the grogosphere.
Citizen portume the sandwich.
Citizen die in creek gulley.
Citizen float among the trees.
Citizen sit at the table with her salt and watch me eat.
Citizen drive one of many cars.
Citizen receive fistula glue and can review the bluebird again.
Citizen is a coolness without destination.
Citizen choose wine over the green rushes.
Citizen hair flutter wildly near hemline of dusky river.
Citizen O citizen.
Witness is suborned to the irradiated factory ensemble.
He could sing a widget with his wolf paws and rabid unraveling.
It all unravels this meadow costumed with grace.
The earth felt solid earlier in the week.
I go into the garage to be with my rakes and the smell of gasoline.
Mood is the inculcation of ears that may barely reach you.
Mood is the color of sallow grass.
Mood is the not there of tomorrow and everyone beating off, June air, white fire, hidey holes.
Carving failure of wavery spine.
Mood separates watching the sun from eating the vole.
I enclose all the blood in an emergent highly placed village of leastwise crows.
I keep saying bird or jackdaw hoping my pancreatic will explode.
Mood is the town the future covets.
The remonstrance of her eyes blacken the porch light with flies that disinfect the succor.
With vervain in the blackened banjo strang.
With vervain in all the furrows the invariable sleep of amnesty hours.
Then I die and then I wake and then I follow the ancestor’s rullets.
This pattern fuck my countryside so hard there is nothing left but the blind post, the lunar thunderstorm, the eyes half-notes of blood, the blood all in them.
Red-dark, bloom fisted, rain hearts illegible and raptured, only a quivering horse god would make a detaunted lump where the squash grows.
Only a quivering horse god could eat inn and steeple and black reeds and nary, severance monsters gadded up with mouths of smoke and fine intents.
Tim Earley is the author of three collections of poems: Boondoggle, The Spooking of Mavens, and Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (Horse Less Press, 2014). His work has appeared in Chicago Review, jubilat, Sink Review, Colorado Review, and other journals. He lives and teaches in Oxford, Mississippi.