by Katherine West
Even in October
butterflies crowd
the butterfly bush
are lifted by the cold
wind then released
to drift back to their magenta
breakfast
in a flurry of giant
orange flakes
of Halloween snow
or fire
The high rise looks like
a grey ice cream cake
left out in the summer
sun so that slabs
of cement melt and slide
down its sides to the street where
grey children lie
with their eyes shut
the party over
time to go home
The prairie dog sits up
on its hind legs
still and alert
waiting for danger—
shadows of crows
pass over him and away
like the low-flying planes
in black and white newsreels
of World War Two
Pale blue flowers
still cling to the tips
of the rosemary bush
but the lavender
and thyme are dried out
helpless when the wind
drives down the mountain
strips them bare
In this house the cabinets
are full of supplies—
ten of everything, power
to run fountains
in the desert
thick walls to keep the heat out
to keep the heat in–
a fat door like that
of a castle
Vultures come in a black
rush sometimes–
the body bags are white
as lumps of sugar
with the corners
licked off
