nothing beautiful about it. Not anymore. The porch creaks, it speaks of fruit as white as winter.
the railing there is a tree. You light a cigarette, and the branches tap your arm the way a sad girl plays the piano.
can’t even core an apple now, without stopping to take a pill. You can’t cut
into an apple, or sleep at night for wondering if what lies next to you is a wolf, or a black ape, or something that rose from the mud.
The digits of your first phone number dance by in a chorus line. The four is pink and
the five is green; the eight is clear as lemon quartz. You see a plan or maybe
a scheme. It clutches you like a field mouse in its talons.
it shatters. Explodes into tiny beads. Fingers wave like sea ferns and you hope
the phone doesn’t ring.
nothing beautiful about it.
not a movie, or a book.
not the water in the basement, or the fire under the stairs.
is a sky, white as winter fruit, this is a Ferris wheel in the weeds. This is the oak tree, that
becomes the electric chair.