Joe Ahearn

Courtyard four hundred miles inland Hunger. Thunder. High chalk cliffs. Not-blonde neighing in the rain, head down, arms crossed over her breasts… These grays do not stride as we stride, but linger as mist in the clefts of green hills. & plums reign at the bottom! Only noon & already I long for chicken. The

God those sentences fields full of them Sentence last remains laid bone-to-bone Fields fractured by sentence tombstones Tooth sentence fractures skewed and chipped Names dates of weary argonauts

Is it enough just to say what I like, that I ate three cold plums, that I grieve for the day? This morning I grieve because grief is my queen. Let us make a bad song of that lingering taste.