Green Peppers

swing in the young Ohio summer
dusk, those swollen jade moons,
those eyes that flirt, so you pucker
and take a bite. But you don't
eat them like apples. You pluck them
off twig-thin vines when they're not ripe
because they're never ripe, and you pull
off the stem which sounds like someone
snapping their fingers, like Neil Armstrong,
who snapped his after that one small step.
(his green peppers were freeze-dried).

Green moons now rise each noon,
like the canaries in coal mines,
on death's lookout, alerting us far
too late. Sun amputates the green
of my grandfather's eyes, the lunar
peppers eclipsed by wicked Apollo,
wrinkling his face, ripples of brown
on his jade moons once full of breath.
Now October and (his green peppers
frozen dry) I must bury them. Watch
how I close his eyes, how I pull dead
roots, wait for next summer's moons.