The sun blotted out all the shadows
a quarter of the barn and half of the elm
are gone
the horizon between them
gone
the birds and the worms about to be
eaten
the corrugated bark
the grass god-like in its numberlessness
the connect the dots of the feathers
the too slow airplane
gone
the sky
gone
rolled up like a scroll
gone the boy in his go-kart
dashing into not all
a monarch butterfly almost made it
only the bleach-white tongue of the lizard-day got it
gone the cat watching everything
what is this that eats even words
all poetry is erasure
this isn’t death
even death does not have anymore
the time to do its intricate job
or was it like this
all along

____

Sheila-Na-Gig, Fall 2024