Writing Poems In Summer's First Heat

 

Writing Poems In Summer's First Heat

I had two choices: work outside, hair
sweated through—or toes numb in my

basement office. Two hundred and sixty
years ago, someone actually kept apples,

potatoes, and farm animals down here.
I'd like tell you how when it rains, you

can still smell wet earth, fur, dung. But
that would be lying. In my dress pocket

my phone shivers: same old, same old
bottomless, tiresome corruption. I want

the news to sink into a three hour nap
and wake up bleary, having forgotten all

it meant to say, bulletins blown away like
dandelion seeds floating on white fuzz,

western sky gone amber behind new,
neon green leaves. Is that distant thunder?