Dusklight
Spicebush swallowtails linger at the pentas.
Two palm trees, corded necks lichen splattered,
frame autumn’s fading light. Lately it’s getting
harder to say the true thing, to find solace
harder to say the true thing, to find solace
in nature’s simple illustrations. The ruellia
blooms each morning only to wither in dusklight,
blooms each morning only to wither in dusklight,
and the oleander’s moth larvae didn’t survive
the summer. All August I kept finding black spikes
the summer. All August I kept finding black spikes
on the undersides of leaves framing a ghost body,
like a reverse silhouette or a human death shadow,
like a reverse silhouette or a human death shadow,
as if the caterpillars had left behind
an imprint, some remnant of what used to be.
an imprint, some remnant of what used to be.
