What else is black?
A dragonfly frequenting backyards,
Flat wings, smear soot thin.
A rural road’s moonless night
where tree branches take
the passer-by pulse—they rustle
the scrape history lammed
onto bark thinly thinly
as dragonfly wings and first time
hearing white tail bucks stamp
and hiss in the pitch dark I tumble
into the ditch prostrate like a penitent.