It’s absurd if you think about it—
a specter appearing before we die
with a scythe? Absurd in part
because specters are wasted on the dying.
What of the animals?
Is there a boney specter-raccoon harvesting
coons caught by the hounds?—
a giant skeletal Clydesdale for the Budweiser horses?
Maybe there’s a place full of spectral animals,
some creepy-boney petting zoo
teeming with fleshless creatures disappearing
when they collect their late counterparts
and then reappearing in an odd display.
A neutral place
where they exist, silently disappearing
and reappearing over and over—
some dark spine-chilling disco-zoo
with pale strobing animal-reapers popping in and out
like spooky dancers.
Listen up, child, because I’m warning you.
Down south, there are mosquitoes—not
normal mosquitoes. These are as big as motorcycles
and twice as fast, and they will carry you off
if you’re not careful.
Don’t laugh. I’m serious!
They’ve been known to
carry small children away. They have wings,
noisy wings that sound like chainsaws
and if you listen, you can hear them flying around
looking for children.
When they find you,
they swoop down like small helicopters,
and before you even realize it
they’ll have you! They lift you up into the sky,
and then suck you dry almost instantly.
Those giant children-sucking mosquitoes
will suck every last drop of moisture out of you.
You’ll be dead before you hit the ground,
and then you’ll look like a dried-out-leaf,
the color of burnt umber, falling out
of the clear-blue-sky, blowing in the wind—
you’ll be lucky if anyone ever finds you.
As a matter of fact, that color that you will be,
burnt umber, is why they call them
Don’t laugh. I’ve seen ‘em!
They had one, stuffed,
at the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago,
and it had a big gold plaque that read,
“Umber Mosquito that killed 700 children
and then died of indigestion.”
Near the low end of the meadow
there is a yellow horse. It lives
there—between the meadow and the pond.
It lives on someone’s land,
because everything is claimed,
but I know not whose.
It is, perhaps, the most beautiful
horse I will ever see,
and yet it is blind.
It knows nothing of beauty.
It is nobody’s horse, and even if it did
belong to anyone, this horse,
with its opaque eyes, might never know it.
Even the priceless thoroughbreds
may be unaware.
Beneath the cracked earth
of the desert, lay frogs.
They are dead, like seeds are dead,
until water brings them to life.
They have been found
inside crystal geode coffins.
Others wake up—the way
coma patients wake up.
For all I know, they could be
millions of years old—
Jurassic rock frogs.
They are out there, out in the desert,
just laying there like clods of earth,
until they are reborn,
and then they do what frogs do.
They hop away and eat things.
On the edge of Bridgman
there are no sirens—no fanfare
when the river vomits in-
to the gulley, flooding the farm-
land, delivering odds and ends
from the river.
On the Rolling Acres, a shopping cart,
deposited with the receding waters,
is missing the wheels. Dead horses
bloat beside flat fish, staring
at the sun with opaque eyes.
Only two days later, flowers
open to the singing birds.
A brown barn begins to crackle,
cleaning itself—color shining
where mud falls away in sheets.
Only the meadow’s low end, still
a tiny pond jammed with turtles—