Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Besmilr Brigham—Issue 49, January 2015)

November in Jalisco

summer does not die in yellow

fields are not laid out in that color to die

there is a purple after

that covers the fences

rushes, runs against the stalks

and lost whites

the blue bent-over

high blades smeared with purple

tips of straw-dipped weeds broken out into

bursting plumes of silt-dry stain

a heather of pigment

rock fences over the mountains

red rock fences toward Guadalajara

valleys and tile roofs below bell steeples, farms

the land blocked off with rock

a leaning cosmos

breaks in spurts from the water line

a man is going up the road leading a donkey

on the donkey’s back a child’s bare coffin

the hunter late

carries from over his corn fields

out of the bog through rows and hills, a dangled

bundle of iris

as floats bedded in water

iris and heather

laid out bare and closely tipped

all cold and blue in a melt of small bloom

leaves stain the shadow the man makes—