Milk bottles, vein-paper, soapboxes, chicken bones all strung
Along telephone wires where squabs peck needle-holes

Into the dense white, seeking marrow that will be carpet dust
When it touches air. It’s Thursday so the barking dogs

Outside the windows are prerecorded and will loop
Until it starts to rain and morning notices noon

Still sleeping on the back of a derelict’s burnt hand. Loaves
Of peanut bread, stolen from the hospital, were found

Bobbing in the pear-glistening bend of the river, at least five
Miles away—that’s why the plastic leaves are being blown

Into the downtown air from a reversible electric vacuum,
Silently—the sky seemed smudged before it turned

Oat-colored. Yes—it’s Fall, despite what our calendars
Say. Nodding, let us cart cords of wood to Carolina’s tomb.