Tag Archives: south

South and North (3)

In August the dogs dodge the fall
of black walnuts in the back yard,

the baseball-heavy pods landing
even at night like the home team rallying.

*

The three inch palmetto bug cockroach
drops from the hairy stalks of palmetto

trees on the heads of couples leaving the bar.
Light like a lawsuit under an unironed linen shirt.

South and North (2)

In the still summer swamp a cypress knee’s
a mountain. Behind the patient transparent lid

of danger there is not a single smooth straight
line on two hundred million years of hide.

*

On the hill I dump more March snow
behind my truck into a pile impenetrable as Everest

without a Sherpa. The uneven humps
of buried cars stretch ahead: back of a giant alligator,

danger lies silent on the surface of the road.