to let a little glimmer through

harvesting the ground cherries
that haven’t been bored/eaten by worms
and cherry tomatoes that haven’t
been devoured boy another kind of worm
all in the morning rain
that moves in
gathering momentum/speed
as it showers down
but never tuns into a full downpour
and then moves out
new mexodus i say at lunch
about the recent exoduses to new mexico
and trish, the biggest not-fan of puns and word play,
looks up from her plate and says she likes that one
“detail neglector” trish says
when i comment on my haphazard harness packaging
while we are gathered at the weekly meeting
angie’s warm towel-wrapped bread in a basket
on the butcher block and how she uses the word sinful
about the chocolate-coconut-almond joy bar
she carries to the front porch on a plate
carefully, sans gloves,
how i pick up a coil of rusty barbed wire
to move aside in angie’s truckbed
to make room for clyde
looked like a fall sunset i say
of the red/orange ripped
across the sky
body draped across hammock which is draped
from rings hung on hooks by the woodpile,
night moving in on me and lightning
so far in the southern distance
how i lie there long enough for the storm-sky
to clear the way to let a little glimmer
of stars through
the donkey/pony stuffed animal
with legs and ears and a tail and everything
hanging by its handles
from coles bedframe
i have never been a purse person
but this might be enough
to convert me
and let’s not even mention
the tiaras
the pink cape
the giant crystals/gemstones
the shiny purple boots
the star paper lamp
and the glow in the dark stars above it


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