The Pink-Blue Zone

The night grows into
The pink-blue zone
And I don’t know why
I’m standing vigil
As cheap boiled sweets
In the guise of dandelions
And deadhead nettles
Poke through the steps
Standing on their dignity
With those purple bells
All fake and merry
Across the green holding
Up feathers in the wind
Into a scattered softness
Soon to be flattened
When the fence gets rattled
By the vixen as she flies
Over with her bread
From Don two doors down
For her cubs as the brimstones
Are no longer fluorescent
Or flapping as the rest
Of the sun carries them
Away with the Tiny
Blues for a while now
The woodpecker hasn’t drummed
But the garden
It goes on you see
In a time of its own