Orchards of Udders by Jon Wesick

dripped on the blanket while air rustled tamarind trees. Chekhov drank a Thai iced tea and plummeted out of this poem. A flock of circles twittered in the hacksaw bushes rasping songs from lavender throats. The birds feasted on hull berries, stale-bread cruxes, and old coffee filters. The flummox jammed his body against the plow. […]