not yet yellowed

four leaves on the small clover
alyssa hands me while we tour the gardens
first i tuck it behind my ear then i drop it
into the glass quart of water
i carry with me
luck water
i slow slip
_______
make it thick
we joke

as many times as we can
about laying mulch in the zinnias
pitchforks in our hands but also
about thick bodies
and how much we admire them
_______
not yet yellowed papery husks
fallen
the season’s first small taste
of ground cherries
while trellising in the greenhouse
_______
how it takes four tries
to draw the lightning bolt
(that tyler is about to stick-poke tattoo on)
that alyssa and i feel good about
on the front porch under the
clip on lamp after tookies first tattoo and alyssa’s umpteenth
where somehow we get to joking about the place as a bistro and
pat drops radical st. louis history/present science

_______
from the water (also known as heartbreak) world:
D0394F2D-2049-46F4-80C3-D4E1638D91BD_w974_n_s
Alligators are stuck in the mud of the dry Pilcomayo river, which is facing its worst drought in almost two decades, on the border between Paraguay and Argentina, in Boqueron. – voice of america, day in photos

E2A914F6-A3A4-4226-801E-7AEB859793CC_w974_n_s
Paramilitary policemen stand en masses in an attempt to block flood waters in Nanjing, Jiangsu province, China. – voice of america, day in photos

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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