Tuesday, July 7, 2020


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.