As the earth darkens, I toss the stalk
of the last pepper killed by frost.
Green spikes of oat cover the plot.
Experts suggest I add a layer of fallen leaves
only to rake them come spring, or till them under.
My brother has been dead for almost two years.
He sleeps in a cold box, surrounded by prayerbooks
he never would have read. Somewhere else, it’s warm.
They’re growing sugar, harvested by workers with rotted teeth.
My new glasses darken in the sun,
even when I can’t see the sun. It must be somewhere,
like goodness: one of those abstract words. What’s good: Sugar?
Obedience? Sex? It all depends on context.
Do the sugar-workers dream of crossing our border,
coming into my garden, packing their goodness
in a suitcase, along with a sweater for the cold?
Soon bears will hunker down for winter.
I hear them growling at their damp cave doors.