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.