naked and glorious by the river
and later at her home, tying the knot
under the oaks with a man named Kindred.
Still au naturel, fragrant, sand spattered.
I tell friends I met a woman named Star—
“and you won’t believe her surname.” The Ridge
cultivates its own cultural weather
that can seem to be a caricature
when you’re standing with neighbors on the street.
I put kitchen scraps in the worm bin,
which sits at the end of the rectangle
of lamplight from the living-room windows.
The scraps of our past make a dank tangle
and the impelling smells of nascent dirt.
Above only the few brightest bangles
suggest there may be celestial angles.