Jon Cone

it begins here,
as you left it,
water still flows
from the burnt stump like oil,
the red dog still digs for the bone
in the jaw of the corn stalk.
Tomorrow, the carnival arrives
hauling its meat.

The heavy monster
lies down in the mud.
In the graveyard the angel
waits with lidless eyes,
believing more than ever
in the invisible tongues
you ferry in your chest.
South then north
then south again.