Gnomon

Gnomon

These fake ladybugs eat the real ladybugs.

The trees go up in flame unequally.
On this side of the street, by the river, they are red.
The other half are still green. 

The slender trees get slenderer.
The branches stand there in memory of leaves taken away.

What does the beloved smell like.
Smell the air to see if they are in the world.

The sheriff’s black school bus rattles back toward the courthouse, empty.
Outside the courthouse, on the sidewalk: tiny booklet reading
DON’T COME BACK TO JAIL.

The trees are plunged into their circular grates,
gnomons in sun dials.

Today, the plants must feel stoned.