I lean my chair against the pine.

The grass, with its late mow,

bares a bird's intaglio

of bones, blue glass, incarnadine

yarn. In the Frontyardless Age

of errant mowers out of sum,

I imagine some other me, my thumb

shaping stag gods in sludge

or stacking cairns. Then the wait—

inside a house without a door,

not knowing what I'm waiting for,

and the yard so wholly maculate.