After winter’s pill,
a flurry of frogs
like Roscoe Holcomb
from the pond downhill
at dusk, a sunset thong
bunched on a black branch.
All you can do
is show out.
You often become
what you most despise
but don’t confuse
emotions for things
that subside.
Often a problem
farmer hides in a gaze
lost in predictions,
especially malediction.
You can only do what
you can do, hobbyist.
Deeply flawed,
all you want is
money and food.
When someone dies
you recall your station:
ailurophile days, a tuxedo
and a tabby pacing . . .
you croon on the porch,
condominiums glow.
Jarrell stepped
in front of a car
three miles from here.
Many trees gone,
your house was built
the year he died.
Life is a series
of interruptions
and one has trouble
grasping the matter,
that magisterial quiet,
trouble in mind.
