Late Season

Late season there are
yaller leaves
that fall like rain
in night breeze and
cricket moonlight
wherein our hair curls in
silent humidity,
humble in late
seasons and the twilights.

To have dog slobber
in measurements
I'd rather not think
about
and to have short
fish-nibble
adrenaline
course through the reel and
cork bark handle
carrying us
to the few
streets we walk
downtown
and I, I sing
 song of dysfunction and fear
     because I wonder
     if they are watching us, and am I standing straight enough?

Are we up to their standards?

these burgher, bourgeoisie,

these people who voted for Bush then Obama,

and I flee to sand and dirt and great
blue
heron
shit
because I just want to prove my love for
all of us, and don't kid yourself,
I remember the recession
those days of
people not leaving
the house
and
of kids
drinking
drinking
drinking
cheap whiskey underage
behind the post office, so don't
think I don't remember
when
love was all we had.

And you fall asleep on the sand
and itch from poison ivy
and I try to thank you for your night breath in the tent
and spirit in love
without
making
it
seem
weird.