I catch myself going back to the barn
to unearth implements and to imagine mules
wearing the edges of their wooden mangers
smooth, each grain widening before I awake.
Rusty scythes lean with pitchforks and hoes
in the corner ready near the door—weapons
if need be. Outside, thirty acres of leafy
grape canes waving have been replaced
by citrus, bright orange ornaments glistening
on bare ground between the skirts of trees.
My eyes adjust to the hames and collars
on the wall, to stiff traces of cracked leather
that can’t be salvaged. All the many hands
gathered here at daylight are just down the road
in the cemetery. The dust inside smells stale
and old, stirred only by pigeon wings and me.
drycrikjournal 