legs, I am feeling the Bern, toasting
another victory with biodynamic
wine of a local terroir, lighting beeswax
candles in a hybrid ritual to Gaia,
three on a match, as nod to the war-fallen
or to the young girls who have missed
their third period: fuck, fuck, fuck.
I read in the New Yorker that the witches
of Salem, I read that Tolstoy’s Anna
made a sound with her lips, read Sharon’s
ode to Galway, read about children’s
need for play, of course, of course,
their need for play, that hipsters have come
and bought up the Ninth Ward, that Didion
thinks crime stories are urban endorphins,
of course, of course, of course.
Have some rainbow chard. We grew it ourselves.
Have some oat scones, just baked, organic.
Have a look here at what we’ve made
of the yard sale salvaged birds eye maple.
It was once the shelving of the Digby mercantile.