A Chat In The Thicket

A poem

Bourbon in blue glass

With a girl who called green, vermillion

And her father, buried in fall

When the leaves dripped like his oils

Drying on a porch swing, faced at the

Apparition of cut timber

I noted her fair hands were

Shaking and both thumbs

Different in ways that made me wonder

If she inherited form from him or if

She could paint the last hour with one hand

Before December held the other

I smiled and smoked so far away into

Coming dusk

The moon checked on my reason

She called her a satellite and I cried singly

The nightjars missing the cedars knew why