Daryl Scroggins

In retreat, in my leaning garage,
I think of repairing the mower without
ever lifting a tool. Silver sockets
on red rubber in metal drawers.
But always that window askance with autumn,
the ball but not the child.
Grass, there, thins, with nothing preventing
the rise of strings from blades. Here the yellow
reach of albino St. Augustine: spider-blind
but for wood hole. What would have called me in
is like that. Spoken under wood -- as if Lazarus,
returned, finds only a locked dirt door, and is reabsorbed.
Calcium ash of monkey carved on peach pit,
among the odds in a jar of screws.