A Saxon peachman, athwart a fallen stall; peaches dumped in a warm pile, cheeks bewhiskered and slit, a cup’s worth of sugared water, at least. Athwart this new rot, he must poise his leg-stalks stiff to begin. Parts loop-laced; boots strapped, buckled loose ‘round his leg-stalks—long wrists (chicken wrists) from black sleeves, neck ruffed and spoked—grousey. Razoring up the cheeks, from the pavement’s round rough, shaving straight to the pocked bone with a brisk broom’s scouring straws. Rolling his block of leathern heel in the sugarwater’s mewling lap, he steps too close—to the yawning drain—breathless huhhhhhk.
-2001
