Campground

Deep river, Lord, I want to cross over into campground -

There is a balm in Gilead-

It could be the Ark in here for all the birds (and bird-dogs),

and flying squirrels, and turtles.

Sylvia Bell is rising (dark still), and risen, busy-noisy as a

wren daring dawn, high-pitching some river (crossing-over)

song with cast-iron inside it, re-neatening and -fluffling her

nest of leaf-orange afghans, seeming now herself to fly (quick

as she is in her rust-breasted housecoat), sweeping, wiping,

sigh-singing all the while, rag-wringing, boosting up my

morning-blood with a bandanna sugar-tit, patting me or my

pallet on every clinkling fly-by (her wrist-charms chiming in my

hair like change), putting her tea kettle! wren-sounds on for the

crying marsh-wren orphans, hush-harboring the baby-naked

flying squirrels with a babydoll's bottle, finger-stroking (and

coo-cooing) them like they're hers, moon-howling at the

(rising) sun in the hounddog style, (rousing and causing a

four-dog choir to answer), rough-brushing their brown backs

(brown as her hands) and hand-feeding them one at a time like

there's no such thing as time, box-grating crisp lettuce-leaves

for the box-type turtles, leaving them to lower their head-flap

doors alone, finally broom-propping our door-screen open for

easy cat- (and greenglass dragonfly-) passage, lighting now beside

me on my quilt-cushioned croker-pad, panting some, forehead-

beaded, resting where we're feasting on the floor.

Sylvia's salving my calf.

Her trailer-house on the inside is orange as an opened yam.

Last night she mangered me in bible-quilts on a croker-sack pallet.

I slept like something clover-kept and fed.

The smells hereabouts are bucket-milk and breakfast crossed with

corn-crib and pasture.

My calf-patch is oblong like a yam.

Yesterday she said Come on through the door, let's get you good &

homely.

Then I homed her in on where I'm torn.

I can make a yam breathe steam like a vented volcano!

Sylvia's salving my calf.