by Zachary Daniel

The man stirring his dreams into a glass of whisky
is also among them, walking out
into the mayapples, shrinking all the while.
And when he’s under their foliage, stops.
Rain pounds right through the metal roof.

Another down a trail scored by tire tracks
is up to his ankles in mud. All he can do
is laugh, lay back, and let the rain
fill his mouth like a heel-print.

A third, dozing in the cabin, wearing only
one wool sock will wake to the moon
dropping behind two cedars. His body
will empty, and some inner creature will take off
through the branches like a moth.

Zachary Daniel works as a gardener in Cave Hill Cemetery. He lives in Louisville, Kentucky. He has poems published or forthcoming at The Pierian, Eunoia Review, Palette Poetry, Verse Daily, and elsewhere on the internet.