Two garden seats, side by side:
one is full of leaves & the other, twigs.
It looks like an amicable division.
A spam comment touts Extraordinarily naked people.
I hear a train whistle & remember
the beast that stalked me in all
my childhood dreams.
Up in the attic, a freshly shed snake skin
is stretched across the pink fiberglass.
Such separations must be wrenching, however necessary.
A bluebottle fly clings to the top
of an empty water jug, immobile
from the cold. It’s a bad time of year
not to be warm-blooded.
I eventually figured out that I was simply
in the train’s way, & if I laid down
& flattened myself against the ties
it would thunder harmlessly overhead.
Perhaps those nudists too have mastered
the art of getting out of the way,
& their bodies are not merely unclothed
but transparent, so that you can see the food
dissolving in their stomachs & ideas growing
in the reptilian coils of their brains.
There are protocols for everything, even in the garden.
The wind is a very particular host.