Whatever lies next to
is pulled into the narrative:
you are standing in front
of a machine in the market square
as spears of asparagus are threaded
through to pull off their tough
exteriors. A wooden-backed chair
that must have been part of a set
rests on the sidewalk, so the late
afternoon sun can burnish its panels
carved with florets. You think
only of how both make you want to cry.
And it is also something to behold
all the weather vanes on village roofs
churning like many parts of a wheel
before a gale blows in from the sea
and you try to remember
how many seconds of quiet
there were just before the maw
opened and the bodies were
fed to it, one by one.