Perishable Gods

David Koehn

The road at noon, at dark, the mustard field, the field.
The dark barn door, a brown horse behind a white fence
—blindfolded, the white greenhouse, stone’s empty gate.
Inhale of air conditioner, hinge of the door, the moon.
The dark barn door, a brown horse behind a white fence,
Warmth at dawn, a memory of kitchen’s spicy Malabar.
Inhale of air conditioner, hinge of the door, the moon.
The shape of my coffee cup, half-full, now empty.
Warmth at dawn, a memory of kitchen’s spicy Malabar.
I see it, I see her clearly, but I can’t remember what was said.
The shape of my coffee cup, half-full, now empty.
A rat climbs the wisteria finds a bird nest made of wool.
I see it, I see her clearly, but I can’t remember what was said.
The bird feeder above the night jasmine is empty.
A rat climbs the wisteria finds a bird nest made of wool.
A mother covers her boy with night’s blanket, a moth flutters.
The bird feeder above the night jasmine is empty.
Green of the pond, the wedding party, the red dragonfly.
A mother covers her boy with night’s blanket, a moth flutters.
A bird pecks at crumbs, a housecat’s bell.
Green of the pond, the wedding party, the red dragonfly.
Shale stones skip across water, I count 4.
A bird pecks at crumbs, a housecat’s bell.
I rest in the sun, air licked cleaned by wind, name it!
Shale stones skip across water, I count 4
Boats, anchored, nosing into wind’s squall.
I rest in the sun, air licked cleaned by wind, name it!
She reads the air, a bird responds, I ask “is it a bird?”
Boats, anchored, nosing into wind’s squall.
Lightning over Sand Harbor, a black dog swims ashore.
She reads the air, a bird responds, I ask “is it a bird?”
Wind chimes in the cricket song, an open window.
Lightning over Sand Harbor, a black dog swims ashore.
I count 4 before purple sky throbs with thunder.
Wind chimes in the cricket song, an open window.
A new wife packs tea in a box marked “perishable gods.”
I count 4 before purple sky throbs with thunder.
I see the wing, hear the song, I have no words.
A new wife packs tea in a box marked “perishable gods.”
Before the gate the departure hesitates, click.
I see the wing, hear the song, I have no words.
—blindfolded, the white greenhouse, stone’s empty gate.
Before the gate the departure hesitates—click.
The road at noon, at dark, the mustard field, the field.

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