shed

the destroyed work of former summers

clutters the dark shed with the smell of gasoline

and vegetation cut like interrupted fingers.

i am always trying to understand what it means

to stand inside this body and not feel it.

half empty bags of seeds and dirt slump in a corner

of the air that's thin and ugly. axe handles fit

on stubby pegs next to shovels and rakes. torpor

of gravity being everywhere and inside us

the hot days spoil like sweet vermouth.

month of birds. month of bare feet and gratuitous

moonlight. month of reckoning and truth

gathering on my greedy mouth— mud and stars

behold: my ocean against the ocean of my yard.