Matthew Mahaney
You are the Thoroughmeat

 

The apple-stained plow boy.

We float light shards on ponds, sip

 

strawfulls of syrup by hailstorm.

Now we are combing through

 

haystacks and leaf piles just for the smell.

This is not elegy, is nothing

 

so orderly. Prayers

out the window like heat.

You are the Almost Ache

 

The black-scarved turbulence of winter rain.

On my knees. The mongrels

 

make their muzzlesounds

as the pills

 

in my cupboard turn

to little piles of powder.