Day 40 —

Late August. The moon is
the shape of a finger nail
over the lake beyond the lake.
The dog flies into the brush
for a show. She bounds
in fields of hay as
the sky’s stroke grounds us.
My skin is the color
of terra cotta, baked.
The air is warm,
grassy and alive.
And the big dipper hangs
like a pitcher, pouring
the stars
onto my head.

These are good days,
these are good days,
these are the good days.

Day 26 —

The forage for
black bundles of pea-sized clusters
like ornaments, their weight
causing each tip to bow.
With sun at my back
and before the birds
a bowl filled.

On the beach
the jaws of—a fish?
Teeth like a comb.

Peach, goldenrod, orange sherbet.
A dog howls ah-ah-aOoo 
There are chirps and croaks
and the flap of birds wings
from tree to tree.
Insects float in silhouette,
two spiders suspended from a railing,
spinning their evening webs.