PREMONITION

In this hot and 

wavy season of dearth,

when all seems  

as dust 

and the sticky smell 

of dill,

when

your brains have turned

to pure 

nectarines—

bruised

and lately kept artificial-

ly cold

to protect 

and to slow 

the spreading 

blush of

their bruises;

that's 

when

it's just starting to get 

so those 

aspects

you'd been hovering over,

greedy 

to protect,

livid to start

dying over—

are finally 

almost 

ready—

to open up 

into

symbols

worth

living for.