the slow-rolling hills of the flesh-toned sunset,

sluthering off to make manifest
daybreak elsewhere—so
 
for the sorrel now, gone
to seed and groping the 
sky as a weed might, 
weeks before yule tide 
saps the grass greige,
souring leaves. Your brother’s 
 
small pall then
sprawls out 
under the stars,
like scars against 
woodgrain feigning a
movement. Barleycorn
 
chuckles and buckles in 
stone as your feet go stubbornly
scudding up over the buck-toothed 
concrete, plots of sidewalk chalk just
humbly plumbing the pockmarked rock
for a feisty dog kennel grotto or cat house,
any scarce space that the scattershot 
rain, the rain we’re here without
hourly maybe, should
dare never penetrate—
digging for clams.
 
And the theatre mask hooligans beckon
the rain and the stars stand still for an instant, 
settle, gangway for the gibbet, the crane, or the
trebuchet—which-
                        ever route Jupiter
                        Morgan’s chosen this 
                        rather concerningly sultry
                        Christmas morning—maybe
                        it’s Easter, Ascension, Feast
                        of St. Brigid, or All
                        Hallow’s Eve—
 
whatever day Jupiter Morgan thinks 
is best, wan Houdini of death and
taxes, to honor or gravely sedate the
sunset stumbling back to its cave
so the stars can rage about 
which smug gods they still
must coldly and soberly        quiver 
                                        to    slip against.