It might be coming to pass
even as you read this—
in this hottest and waviest
season of dearth,
when all your intentions
lie around the backyard in piles
like construction materials
coated in dust
and the fecund smell of dill is hanging
like a sticky net in the air—
this is the late-afternoon
moment you realize
you're not going
to get anything useful done.
Your brains are turning
to coils of sprinkler hoses; or else,
they've just been swapped out
for the last two old nectarines
left at the market—
so bruised, they must
be kept artificially
cool at all times
to slow the spreading
blush of their bruises
before the sweetness rots
from the inside out,
and even the smell of it
is hell enough
to ruin you.
