Like where muhlygrasses meet their own cessation,
any landscape seared against a barren scald will do

for what grows at the edge of all such places? that hairsbreadth border between where and 
             where?

A populous of ghostly laborers we had all of us used to feel ourselves into, grown used to using 
             and used quite-weary up

in the narrow:

those broken gourd bodies, 
squirrel-opened catharses,
guts out in the residential, half-block street.

[And when we got under the skin there was no looking back, divulsion, diversion, a hey-look-at
            me soft-bruised apple dropped and rolling down the gable,

then roundboundaried hesitation, a hover of gutter and garden.]