Possum Pouch

Black Stone 52

RAIN BRINGS GREEN weeds out in the yard and hackberry leaves are pleached over southern kitchen windows. A crack bag blows by this morning while I take garbage to the curb. Beer bottles are dumped in a blue plastic container. My feet are wet on the walk and the sky's peach green-grey goes off pale behind sumac leaves. I found that word "pleach" in one of Ezra Pound's cantos. It's out-of-date, probably last used in the mouth in the 16th century—"The pleached bower" (Shakespeare). But I like its quick hit, a relation of entangled branches or interwoven leaves. Because the canopy outside our window appears marvelous now despite long silken worm webs hanging down to stick in our hair and faces and clothes. The little green worms appear briefly and hold transparent threads throughout the early spring. K waves his arms, shouting playfully, "I'm wormed!" Today he has a fever while books and papers lie in neglected heaps across my desk. I write in the "American style," to quote Céline, "confused and lyrical." "The untrained mind shivers with excitement at everything it hears," says Herakleitos. Kerria blossoms burst forth yellow under a desert willow. I take my time with the day. Wonder how I'll make money. It's Friday and cold beer's in the fridge. There are cheese sandwiches with mustard. Rain drops are visible through a row of power lines. A chinaberry rots in the yard.