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Harvest Fair

Anthropomorphic gourds on the trencher.
Cold local pears.

Undeniable chill in the air.
Red sweetness in fists & clustered stars.

Over the tent, crescent moon.
Neo-hillbillies play.

In line for the bathroom, farm people check iPhones.
Overheard: “It’s just apple picking against the apocalypse.”

Slaughtered veal on the grill. Tender cow.
On the roast pig’s black nose, someone’s sunglasses.

Beyond fiddlers, the bonfire.
Boys toss on a scrap pallet.

Light flares on our faces.
Timeless, how a few couples slink off now—

to feel their new bodies in cornrows, in darkness.    

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   Contributor’s notes

   Harvest Fair
   Last Hay

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