Workings

An old Indian lives in the lemon orchard. 
His age bewilders the thorns, 
his body is rich as brasswork. 
He will kill you many times before 
the year is out. You will know this each time. 

And the soapworks of your flesh 
will hang like long scrolls 
from the tree limbs of his orchard. 
Wind and water will change the color 
and the texture of your skin. 
By now you will have forgotten Chicago.