Peach Scut

By | 1 May 2021

On the subject of woodlands, why
write what you don’t understand, write
lies about landscapes, for four days
it rains. I read
the books to have read them. I didn’t
read them I was moved by the titles, how
life quietly insists. Mammal in the kitchen
in a mew in Shadwell
cold soup and cataracts, mammal that would
mend the world, with words like landscape
nowhere but in poems. That is, writing
of morning mulling
greens and blues, describing the sky—
long and only window—nowhere writing of red
weather yellow weather, you, with clouds
around your neck
on a printed peanut travel pillow, half-asleep
in the passenger seat—to catch your eye
in the mirror. Undercast, I know
there’s a weather
for it, though not knowing the why, if it
will fit into life’s white envelope, why
caught under the netting on a fruit tree
a bird feasts until it dies.

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