“Revelation,” “Consequences be like…,” and “1838”

Where fall hangs on into late December are

scattered bay leaves, almond-shaped to the

petiole, petiole as boat draft, wake, tiny

battleships and destroyers from the

admiral’s sky vantage, arranged in naval

maneuvers on the asphalt expanse of Hastings

Loop, bay leaves circling, flanking,

engaging. Shorelines of bay leaves

clustered around seaside curbs, overflowing,

matted, muted colors, orangish/yellowish/

greenish/brownish, leeched of hue with each

day passing, withering bacterial tenements of

a satellite’s vista, blighted bloated

urbanity, mindlessly overpopulated,

windswept & moldy, burrowing insect

refuge, until the streetsweeper cometh

like revelation, sweeping all

away as if none of it ever existed.

Accumulating on the

shores of clotting

archipelagos,

the convergence of

trade winds,

ocean currents

and eight million

metric tons

of synthetic punctilio.

Light pollution,

neutered

insomnia like spent

fuel rods,

effulgence visible

from space,

artificial lights

leaching stars

of their twinkle.

Rowdy surf on a

wind-ruffled day,

con spirito whispers

schussing

through erudite trees,

new green of

puerile leaves,

summer confetti,

blue sky confection inside

kaleidoscopic triangles

and rhombi, framed

by enflamed edges

riled by wind gusts,

hims© for wildfires.

Under Wood’s head his hands were

clasped together, a makeshift pillow,

his mattress a going-threadbare, military

-issue blanket as much soil and forest bits as wool.

His body was too tired from another full

day of walking to care about the tree

root boring dully into his lower back. He

hadn’t selected a spot to sleep with enough

care, following Clarendon to the first

clearing, dropping his things, spreading

his blanket, sprawling out. Staring up through

a chasm in the ceiling of black jack oak treetops,

moon gone, night sky starlit; they’d been

heading west seeking confrontation

for an entire lunar cycle. There hadn’t

been a moon when they set out into these

unending, undulating woods, the moon

coming to full bloom, sun’s proxy over

an unblemished sky and still dim day into night.

With each next night something feeding on the

moon from its dark side, every night

a little less left of it, a sliver gone,

half-eaten, a sliver left, then fully devoured,

defecated as star glitter in a raven sky.