I water the cabbages
the dog runs about mad
as I walk back and forth to the blue barrels
filling Gran’s grey watering can.
In college I learnt how to depreciate …
I wouldn’t dare do such a thing.
The caterpillars squatting on the cabbages coil
as the water rains down upon them,
followed by my thumb.
(I keep meaning to write that poem.)
19th of June; 9:45pm —
I have one more job to do
and I will do it practising a few reels.
My fingers do not need my eyes
so make myself a ****** be
in the woods where they can’t see me —
the snakes.
Years and years and years
of cleats traversing the field below
have to left pairs of ungelating snakes
slithering towards the four gates in the field.
Soon I pan to install a 5th
and this worries me,
never having hung one before; plus
what if the snakes bite me. Or worse
I succeed.
For now I fret, leering towards the bull,
I want to see him *** —
#414, she’s still not in calf.
If she repeats again, it’s goodbye for him.
But the ****** just grazing. Swishing at flies,
periodically ****** and poops.
Is my playing distracting him?
I suppose … we’re all entitled
to a night off.