Coastal Graveyard in Branford, Connecticut

BY PAUL FORD

The frugal spaces as if Yankees embraced the dirt down un- to them. Above, salt-scoured markers rippling in exhaust from DATSUN & McDONALDS. (We must seem to ripple too inside the supermarket's window.) A stone shakes at the end of vision. OFF THE COAST OF BRAZIL we had earlier browsed. The girl scans barcodes off our frozen food. Where water is the jungle, bronze and green, shrieking birds of teal-streaked apricot throng massive heat, drop hushed in ribbons past the dripping palms. Through swollen calm, thence shadowing a dusk- smoked wave which slides, an amorist's shoulder.

The frugal spaces as if Yankees embraced the dirt down un- to them. Above,
salt-scoured markers rippling in exhaust from DATSUN & McDONALDS. (We must seem to ripple too inside the supermarket's window.)
A stone shakes at the end of vision.
OFF THE COAST OF BRAZIL we had earlier browsed. The girl scans barcodes off our frozen food.
Where water is the jungle, bronze and green, shrieking birds of teal-streaked apricot throng massive heat, drop hushed in ribbons past the dripping palms.
Through swollen calm, thence shadowing a dusk- smoked wave which slides, an amorist's shoulder.