that’s parked at the heart of Aurora,
and a bay horse, one leg raised, asleep
tethered to the rail. If you follow
Main from there, you’ll find the garden
open dawn to dusk in the care of Mr. Epp
who’s out of town today, so you’ll not
hear the names ripple from his mouth,
the ones you memorized: pennyroyal,
On a kind of yarrow, witness a spider,
the precise pollen-canary of its chosen flower,
drawing nectar from a bee, as the bee itself
drew from the flower, and the flower
from the rain.
At dusk, drive north toward the city
on old 99. You’ll meet the sign
for the town that failed and holds
like Aurora to its name. New Era,
all moss and fern.
Here comes the rain.