Stale

I’m not surprised about the oyster crackers
going stale so quickly
here wrapped up in this basket
where the wicker weaves its way
back over everything,
but I am surprised by you.
You who found me here
mixed in with all these business cards
and quick cash grabs for plastic.
There you are with just a flashlight
looking down into the well to see the water.
I can see you bleeding from the cut
you are ignoring by your eye,
but you don’t let me ask what happened
even barely, and the wet metal ladder
you are climbing gets so much colder
as you move up every rung.
I know the day is done
for scarecrows getting gutted
by the wind with all the hay inside
their stomachs pouring out into
the slowly dying barley fields.
A man in just a raincoat balances
a light bulb on his forefinger
on a bus stop bench in some city
while its raining, as if just the current
in the air could make it glow again.
No one believes it could be possible,
but that one evening in the summer when
the sun rays fell in volleys with the rain
there was a spark against the filament
and pain.

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