A Stroll to the East

by William Doreski

The texture of weed and trash
at roadside, fine and complex,
catches and retains my gaze.
Goldenrod, thistle, ragwort,
foam coffee cups, vodka bottles,
beer cans, donut bags, aster
and starflower long past its bloom.
The world hides under this dressing,

concealing certain old wounds,
but walking hard in August light
I detect a radiance
flustered by shyness and tact.
At the top of the rise a house
under construction arranges
the landscape around it. Hill
and trees, a meadow sloping

to a view of honest mountain
peaked with naked granite.
I stop long enough to sense
the menace beneath the layers
of cloud piled in the distance
like the flesh of someone I’d loved
before the yellow air undressed her
to reveal the chimera beneath.

Already a daylight moon
dimples the east. Almost full,
almost a moon worth having.
The weeds and trash combine
to evolve a new understanding
that rattles drought-brittle stems
and bags and cups a little breeze
to stash away for the future.