ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS
Sequence: 7
DRY
the natives mow their lawns
under a stone the last breath
of a beetle hides its moisture
have the cows lost their minds?
wandering off the pasture
through trees with curled brittle leaves
seeking lands green with new laws
for cows without masters
in bed the wrinkles accumulate old
faces and speak back to the night painfully
an overturned cup barely remembers its liquid
a mushroom sags in the middle
a gauze of spiderweb
anchors on the feet of the mullein near
irrational asters that flower in the drought
those walking ahead of us
footsore are looking for their cows
and registering earnest promises
for the return of regular days
of storms and pens with latches that hold
a spark in the night flies up
through its firefly phase
its jet engine phase
its phase of being a dry star
in a wet-colored sky
with adoring citizens
their children cattle and produce
circling below in the ever-giving land
thankful and modest and pious