overwinter

I owe the title of the poem to a discussion of gardening with Lisa Henry.

the rain knows
the best time to fall

                   roger takes his stubby cock
                   and puts it in your mouth

I turn the handle and go out
then wake  the old man explains

as they sunder you stem to stern
"this is just a game they play

                   roger opens the tailgate
                   and brays in bashful baritone

I look for anything missed
benzene rainbows on the water

a seagull that resembles a buoyant rock
a face in need of a fist

                   roger transfers the decalogue
                   from the superior court to your tongue

the latching of a door makes outside inside
in place of mural invective a small bush

I step outside  wake again  return chisels
buy washers like a person with purpose

                   I count out "thank you roger
                   he dispels

I write the postal code on the postcard wrong
so it goes to the president of earth

I place here a mark  there a dangerous oath
excise midcentury modern detritus from the skull

                   my own mother's tongue feels
                   foreign and rough in my mouth

the gravity is weak  the pining fades
the men return to town

remember this  should birnam wood
e'er come to dunsinane
                                   I'll burn it down