He thinks it is good weather for fishing.
The second woman
with old hair and powder made from crushed seashells
sips swamp water from the mouth of the man with a flat Crow nose
and he culls her hair with hands, not his alone,
turning her neck into a cornstalk leaning,
whispering “Bia, Bia”.
He tells the other one, in stockings rolled to her ankles,
that the Whip-poor-will was out last night halving babies
from moonstones, into the dirt they come from.
And yes, he saw the fox swallowing
up the road with scatterpaws,
a fishing rod tucked behind his terracotta fur.
A tick to tell time by; that water must be teaming.
The second woman hangs her body in the air
long enough to say “I never trust a man whose mama
didn’t teach him the piano.”
And what kind of fool, with the pockmark face,
lopes in a room beneath the kitchen floor
building trains no man can sit in,
building engines to run on light bulbs.
His fingers, like sewing needles, thread clay mountains
with floss grass and black glass beads meant for coal.
He’ll collect himself a world with his mouth as the sun
and pin bait minnows to streams of blue paint.