8 9 25 yellow potatoes
Slit
eyes
on the
deck
in the
mid
summer
sun
as
the first
maple
begins
to brown
on the
other side
of Lac Crystal
under
the weight
of eastern
humidity
with
lightly
charcoal
sky
and there
is an
ice cube
in my wine
as I search
for laughter
in my dirty
shorts
pockets
but instead
we are
emptying out
the usual
family complaints
about the ancient
matriarch
and split wills
and property
arguments and
it’s dull
and my ice cube
melts much
too fast and
the stringy fresh
yellow beans
and yellow
potatoes
were the best
part of supper
and the blueberry
pie oozes syrupy
mauve darkness
under a small
brick of orange
ice cream that
will wrestle
in a quagmire
of intestine
while sparking
methane expulsions
that will mist
like dark matter
into our timeless
universe.
