On a rag and bone specimen
of Great Lakes limestone,
between cedars, lining
buggy paths, blurring the bed
and breakfasts' backyards:
lambent shaggy pilewort clusters—
sun-mad, puddle-thick
low-growing buttercups
swirled around everywhere—like
tobacco smoke, like husky
flute notes, like the ancient Native
American narratives
now breezily used as tourist lures.
Or perhaps,
like Apollo
as an unkempt senior citizen—
Eternal Sunshine himself
come to roost forevermore,
to rest anonymous at last
one July afternoon
on the sleepiest,
most wonderfully
outmoded—and forgetful surface
of the Earth.
