By Christian McKenna.
A rake of New York
An orange peel thrown over
The other side of a grey river.
Citrusy tree, all banded anatomy
Sits up in the churchyard and sports
A shaggy head of polished leaves.
It is Sunday morning. me and man
Starkly homeless, goober
And his little knipper, ditsy in the sun.
He is encased in his own carapace
In the yew-court. I’m sitting on a bolstered
Tomb, iron-braced.
II
The light is leagues long
In the grip of earth’s hump
Like a foottrap throttling a snake.
It breaks off here, all tatters in a broth.
Midsummer hitches to a post
Like a dunce, and sways
Head of butternut squash.
A seat on the stomach
of a maple
has emptied. Swingsets stilled,
an easel pumped shut.
The celebration has retreated
To white chairs.
Fogs of sleep shunted up
mid hop-scotch.
Portuguese sounds and Portuguese music
So many villages break off in London.
Merging back into the estate
Hedgerows of brick. Half the retainers
Will sieve in here and crawl into bed
And leave midsummer
Smiling in the dark.
Things are tending in the wrong direction
And I have come to the bog shore
Seeking a boon.
