Bean-Farts

by Eric Chaet

Nothing doing—hollow’s empty.

Too hot to zip bag—
mosquitoes for companions again.

Strange way to roll into day’s dream
sun casting blue across black spaces
& white galaxy glazes.

Snake skin among piled stones
minnows racing in shallow pools.

Gathering driftwood from dry creek
setting orange flames licking can black
steam & smoke rising while beans calm.

Floating
between howling birth-hungers
& eventually glutted worms.

When she visited, Mary asked,
“What are those giant flies?”

When she’d gone
one of those giant flies asked,
“Who’s the dame?”

Every body talks about every body around here.

Creek’s dry, corn’s brown—
night comes, & white waters fill my dreams.

Thunder rolling down hollow
cool drops on burnt shoulders
walking bronzed rocks of creek bed
green clues everywhere.

Creek flows
cool breezes shake leaves.
Moon intervening full
into dark revelations of visible galaxies.

9 bean-farts, Great Hollow!

///

Also posted online @ Beyond the Pale (Ireland & France)

///

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