The Golden Age
A Russian émigré
to the unconscious
loaded a brush
with black pigment.
It was not like today.
There were flowers
you could eat.
A black half-moon, red circles below it like breasts. The sounds in the grass disturb the neighborhood’s grief.
A dagger-tongued horse peeks in. Black lines of rain veil the troubled queen. The man in overalls who has begun drinking heavily again smiles and smiles.
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. A flower is a fox in a hole.
With the arrival of summer, such winds. The movement of knife in shell never faltered.
We packed our belongings – blue triangle, high, philosophical forehead, dog bowls – in a delivery van. The butcher who loaned it to us was missing a fingertip. We didn’t stop until we made the border with Michigan, our celebratory breakfast consisting of takeout coffee and Camel cigarettes. The clouds off to the west had a slightly worried expression. One looked like a dour old farmer, another like his farmhand Charlie.