He has 10,000 trees it’sĪ tree farm, so there are so many trees. It’s so small, it must take him days, so I imagine that he likes it.
The man across the street is mowing 40 acres on a small lawn mower. I’d press her limbs down with a long pole Just years ago, freely single, happily unaccounted for, Spurt, or gurgle, I’d imagine a body, a woman, a me Imagine, just thinking the water was low, just wantingĪfter that, when the water would act weird, Of water pressure in an old hotel in Los Angeles, Somewhere I had heard that, after noting the lack Tornado talk, dead June bugs like pinto beans. Judging crackles, rusty mailbox, spiders in the magnolia tree, I was suspicious of the monkey sounds of Kentucky’s birds, I made the house so clean (shine and shine and shine).
I had been dragging around for years what’s life? In Brooklyn, by the deli, where everything The paralyzing tranquilizer of love stuckīack home, in my apartment, another woman lived there. This was before we got the dog even, and before I trusted This is Kentucky, not New York, and I am not important. I put my apron on as a joke and waltzed around carrying How south we were, far away in the outskirts. I cried over the nonexistent bathmat, wet Hardwood planks under the feet, a cord to the sky.Įach time he left for an errand, the walls It was only months when it felt like I had been To all its forgiveness, unlocked the sternum’sĭoor, reversed and reshaped until it was a newīright carnal species, more accustomed to grief, Ticker marched on, and from all its four chambers Of bitten bones and snake skins, eggshell dust,Īnd charred scraps of a frozen-over flame.Īll the things it has been: kitchen knifeĪnd the ancient carp’s frown, cavern of rust Was wide like the great eye of a universalīeast coming close for a kill, it was a cave It was, for a time, a loud twittering flight Ada Limón reads five poems from her new collection, Bright Dead Things, published in September by Milkweed Editions.
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