Gammon

Looking up, “The purple now,” she dips her brush and finishes the day. The flag descends. She draws the fire with a marker on fax paper uncurling from its spool. Inventory of glasses, the handblown ones blue-edged could hold a sunset neat, the new regime is softball-sized and etched with tigers. In town they’re pulling draughts for every swinging door. Don’t get angry, don’t get angry. The soaker’s washed and left to dry. Iron Hessians oversee the fire gone to bed beside the harbor, geese calling each to each triangulate the dark. Passing through or are they wintering over? In chevron resolve. Like waking to the rain and walking anyway. She thinking of what to do with pawpaw  jelly, he of mildew and of marrow, while their youngest bouncing gums the leather dice cup, sister rolls, counts, and makes a point. Get even says the horizon like the sun, democratic and unsparing.