summer does not die in yellow
fields are not laid out in that color to die
there is a purple after
that covers the fences
rushes, runs against the stalks
and lost whites
the blue bent-over
high blades smeared with purple
tips of straw-dipped weeds broken out into
bursting plumes of silt-dry stain
a heather of pigment
rock fences over the mountains
red rock fences toward Guadalajara
valleys and tile roofs below bell steeples, farms
the land blocked off with rock
a leaning cosmos
breaks in spurts from the water line
a man is going up the road leading a donkey
on the donkey’s back a child’s bare coffin
the hunter late
carries from over his corn fields
out of the bog through rows and hills, a dangled
bundle of iris
as floats bedded in water
iris and heather
laid out bare and closely tipped
all cold and blue in a melt of small bloom
leaves stain the shadow the man makes—