Departures: Chapter One

Morning’s mirage, disdainful & calm

          as a mirror,

held the shorn bush that yesterday

          flourished,

now lopped canes & a scant spitfall

          of remnance,

confetti trampled in the clefts

          of vanishing deer.

To touch its truth I punched my fist

          into the chopped molest,

the boscage—withdrew my red sleeve.

          Abstract that.