THOM WARD
AMONG THE SCATTERED FARMS
The crow scolds the song
that isn’t his own, even
the cicada’s small fiddle.
Pinned upside down, shirts ruffle
then snap in bursts of wind—
à demain, à demain—
though they cannot wave away
mosquitoes, faint
lipstick on a glass left behind
in the garden. Onions yawn.
Zucchini twist around their stalks
like elephant trunks.
The heat gathers, waits
for August to take off its sandals.
And so do we. . . . If any
of the sacred elixir remains
from vessels placed on altars
it is here among the grass.
Why not seek rogue felicities,
go barefoot, touch
butter-and-eggs, Indian paintbrush. . . .
Tonight, the moon will chase swallows
around Jersic’s barn, and stars
will arrive bloodshot
with the lies we almost told.
