appealing

The Maynard
Fall 2020

Derek Thomas Dew

Turf’s Yield


Some balconies, all far too confident.


Blind to listen to nothing
as if a gigantic body of water
were right around the corner.


While we’re here we should let insects crawl on us:


Everything must do how distance
used to fold time when it was certain
a balcony would hold strong.


As quick as a puddle seems to a dime, you knew.


The bare trees gape slender like burnt nails
in the lesser errands of a cooked yacht
covered in insects.


As quick as a fist of moths.


Together we try to mimic the snore
of the oldest woman on the balconies
but can’t do the tan lines.


The greatest of all loves is a reluctance to sing.