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November 1
It's 3 o'clock.
There are two wasps
left in October, one
shining black mug,
a purple chalice,
acorn rinds
dried up on
the yard. How mortal,
this humid
moss growing
on the tree. The air
becomes lucid,
colder. One can
feel the fruit and
their nasty threat
of sex, and their skin
then wrinkled, thinly,
how lovely. Even
if I exist,
how flat and imagined
the bodies, the life-span
of moths. Bicycles
click, ocelots
pump in the air,
the cars chase
each other. This fine
humid moss grows;
there are but
two wasps left
in October; it's
3 o'clock.
-- published in Ship of Fools, (Spring 1998, no. 41)
Copyright Louise Robertson
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Copyright Louise Robertson