I.
Each pale sky troubled with jet
haze the old man swept as grass
clippings his walk kept, after buzzing
edges. He carried a bucket, dustpan,
and broom, ready to reject our sunned
face while steel moled rock to glass
beneath our feet.
Aluminum and barium limited heaven.
The old sun worshipped hinge and flower
as fools thought in syllogism. The dog
crucified refused to bark the Gaul on pelted
foot, while the goose went wild.
The old man
surveys the driveway. I drink whiskey, not
water, to drown the parasite, the thought of life
within white chalk, a precinct of pews.
II. Haruspex
The hawk flies by dangling fur from its
claw, harried by two black birds,
sniping its tail, after the grey bird
watched me from the watering can left
in weeds—black eye and bill asking:
Who is left to tell me lies about
the cotton sky?
III.
Plastic eggs hang on the Japanese maple
in June, but it’s not Pentecost yet.
Beaten into Jehovah Witness halls
and Kwanzaa cakes, with livid screams,
downloaded books swallowed screens
scanning three a.m. static on the
basement television where we drew on the walls
with crayons waiting for the flag and marines
to signal the start of a new day.
IV.
All the work we do is a cedar plank
stable meant to last the life of sheep.
The red rock grotto lost its ceramic
Mary. She melted in age and rain. The sweet
weasel fattened on muskrat and rabbit,
coded instinct transmitted to a dying
sun.
We block its light and hide in holes.
The eternal rodent returns with skin tail
to the rathole we called home—hoping
to calm our guts by eating dirt.
Matthew T. Hummer
Matthew Hummer is a writer and painter in PA. He has published poetry and prose in a variety of literary magazines.