In the corner of the barren winter back yard
I sit, pebbles hard beneath my clean left foot
The leaves get pushed through the air,
Sounding like cards in the spokes of a bicycle
(the plain wooden clothespins scraping the rear forks paint)
The detritus of plant life has blown beneath the cheap concrete
Of a Japanese lantern I placed by the small tree
To please me, covering the rocks and rotting as such things do.

The sun warms my growing hair;