what really works
on the empty steps of this day
where a poem began to blossom?
no, no, that is the wrong piece
to begin with here, since i left
the rake by the apple tree
the afternoon before & returned to find
its limbs more twisted then ever,
& between the prongs of the rake
slid a green snake tempting me
to find its way back to where it mated.
again, i’m wrong about the day in question.
i set the clocks back one hour
& watched dusk drift in cunningly,
spicing my concern for refuge
with the ploys of poetry.