by Mike Jewett

You find them covered in ants,
move to move them out
of sight before he sees
internal organs of mice.
You’ve covered two or three
in mulch’s sweet effect.
Indian summers float
wild burrs of bronze
so noteworthy they stop and stare,
gripped on stalky remnants
of summer’s ending voice.
Grey feasts on dappled sun;
your lover rained her fire
into shocks of trees-
dogwoods- drupes littering
crabappled fescue grass
seeded from The Rathskeller.
Scenes Scorcese directed
followed her chalky haste,
shot in one take. Your
elegy is one of massive
chick deaths, of breeding
failures, failures of
fieldmice, and of men.


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