wry grass

There, near rock and water
is a second solid dwelling, there, dry and
dry and bundled and stacked
for cuddling cats and feeding cows
a knowing, not normative knowing
to argue the metacognition of I
the sound that
overflows and
can no longer contain the
smell of an ending summer
that last day; emphatic and grey
the kikuya arches from the dust
the wheels churn up the underside as we stack the summer
pile it, pack it in like tetris, no gaps for the mice.
it is necessary for the curls that poke out from beneath the rim, that
there is enough
enough, there is enough
words, enough words stored up to chew
for the winter


(part of a memory sequence)


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