People Are Fading
No fiddling crickets to reply
to the rumors of the season.
The owl took the last robin,
canceling its winsome trill.
I kneel in the grass and comb
its texture for staghorn beetles
and troops of dedicated ants.
No one’s there, only slabs
of moonlight frying like fat.
People are fading in wars
knuckle-shaped men have started
to cement their opinions in place.
I want to redeem all reflections
and cash in most of my shadows
to pay for lawyers to write
injunctions against another
cunning but fatal eclipse.
No one hears me disrobing
the first pale stars of the evening.
But deer tiptoe from the forest
to sample my garden and calm me
with the simple perfection of form.
Author: William Doreski
Photo: Gabriel on Unsplash
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