of cider, of almonds.
Touch of cinnamon
entire acres turn the color of questions
won’t answer tonight.
Who hallowed these halls
planked together a church out of wind
the scent of rotted apples?
We peer into the living,
rooms of a family who believes the body
cross we’re redeemed on.
We leave a cider mill
of any smell an apple can be pressed into.
red leaves eddy back to the branches
drop them and our last thought
omen, when a shadow stuffed into flannel
roped to a fencepost wards off the will
words like right now, this world is love,
can I not believe the crows are units of love
it to straw? When barns
full of moon bounces
inflatable cows in whose bellies every child
town now tumbles, how is this not a farm
the moon is milked?
beat mazes through its fields, who wouldn't
their shadow from a stalk and husk it?