This day, this afternoon, is getting tired.
Chairs rock in absent-minded wind. Chimes clink.
Two tree frogs, green as mint leaves, sit and stare
at nothing in particular. Things slow.
Beyond the bluegrass, bleached to summer-blond,
a rural paradise replete with ruins,
boarded up houses holding their indiscretions
tightly behind the bug-infested wood.
Half-painted barns and plows put out to pasture -
O fits and false starts, O luminous endings.