WOODHULL

a single bird
a skeletal tree
the electric hum
of bugs thoughtlessly
occupied by thirst

this red barn knows
not that it is red
nor that its horses
are dead and gone

spiders freeze
like bullet holes
against the fence

my mind turns
delirious amidst
the dumb peace

of these country acres
sacred land lacking
the city’s raucous blur

the well on the ridge
is full of poinsettias
a crown of bees
crowding the bucket

the legs of the spiders
look like hairs trimmed
from a black mustache

I once knew a woman
with eyes like gems
in the fingers of a glove
I have misplaced them

as I have the bird
though the spiders
dare not move
as I am likewise

motionless while
the bees curiously
fly by