A Depot of Days

The crabgrass was sunk

under the bayou dew.

Imprinted about

were lazy logos:

brown blooms of the orchid,

puttyroot.

 

Somewhere, far off,

sang a child

trapped in a woman’s body.

She sang of a God

in another land.

But her song was lost

in the call for fish:

 

“Spadefish for frying!

Get your fish!”

the basso profundo

called his wish.

And the circling gulls cried,

Kittiwake, kittiwake.

 

And all the while,

the Southern sun

(lonesome and lean

and long in-love)

spangled on the sultry water.

 

 

[From the Along the Gulf series]