Across the yard, falling-apart fence
Hitting, falling, torn down by the storm.
Across the yard, a deflated ball,
Seeping in the mud for weeks.

Rain from above,
And trees behind,
And ants no smaller than specks of rice,
And moss that grows on old-men trees.

And Mud, Air, Grass, and a Nose,
Holes, like Pores in a face,
And Smoke, the Moon, tiny Dots, still Wet,
Stinging, Clothesline swinging in the wind on a fire escape.

Fiddling with fingernails,
On a bed, in a memory,
Throwing them into a bowl of ashes,
Head hung back, neck exposed, drapes fidgeting.

A stone, in motion, rolling down,
Sliding over the wet ground,
Brown and damp,
Heavy, Jagged, Scraping itself smooth.

Disintegration comes, always,
Not as the many-muscled reaper
Looming over from the moon,
But maybe as a friend.