The Picnic
The sun rises in a clockwork
of brass,
in a slow sitar bend,
this town's two or three steeples
like
two or three goats on the hill
above the fen.
Take this fruit
and we'll sit on the grass
and watch the beetles crawl,
beetles who know all
there is to know
about means and ends.
Fugue 31 Summer/Fall 2006