There’s nothing in this warm, vegetal dusk That is not beautiful or that will last. — Joe Bolton, “Tropical Courtyard” At the end of Main Street, the sun pulls the road downward a little lower each day, before disappearing in green.
I. Back of a rented house its mock-barn roof warps; paint peels from the eave. Feeders suspend from what branches remain, while the severed limbs claim squatter’s rights by the gravel drive.