THE AGING YARD

Bombarded into ferns
on infant backs, by imaginary
planes, to a place opened by
music that will never close,
seeking the trunk and lurch
toward death of an erotic
sadness, that eats up
summerday afternoons
with its atmosphere of wronged
desire.
I am tribal, these kids quote from
                                        a bible--
     thrummed as a song into their
         tyres, sung as a hymn only
           to broken trees, frenzied
            neighborhoods, and death
          by gold's seduction
  as the mountains slip in stature
    and the doctrine of the
     ocean takes over.