In the caked oak tracts of the thumbed
dim chalkboard, behind the easel tipping paler
continents further
north, toward the gloss of April, let it be
April, toward the unsmearing concrete breaks
for the searing purslane, to the basement to my
father—forestly, forgretful
whistling to an unhitched Carolina dark, to
a treeline wading, I said trees are waiting
and swing sets corroding
everywhere in this state (our license plate art
is acid rain), let me go
to the church—alone: so much volition
in that tower’s toothed space. I’ll fall there, hit
the chin of the moon’s stannic oatmeal
face, but aim for the garden, splaying out
in splayed spades.
