Heavy—presently almost too heavy
with every enviable
kite-soaring memory
and each tiny rain spatter from
tenderest June through this
blessedly pregnant pause of a moment—
a bloated, swollen,
torpid finality;
its attendant musk mantle
settles and clings
to the drooping tomatoes—
all roped to their stakes now, like
crucified deities
on the brown mounded Golgothas
of neighbors' back lawns.
