Late December

.



red clouds like
torn scraps of onion,
fraught with plangent thunder
over


the silo rearing white and thick
as your thigh from the earth; yearly
flaking the accumulation of its days,
as though the giddily spattered afternoons
I gave were unwanted.
come summer I will not paint it
white anymore.


the fleshless tree simulated atop
is no good. every blue light
has gone out, and
no
pliers in my truck will do the trick:
like a swarm of lanternbugs painted
by one refusing
to render things as they were.


I had to string them
with one pair of hands.
I guess from a distance
they can still fool you.



.