July Lindens

Late July, and now
The lindens are in blossom—-
The heat of the day
Pours down through them, drenching us
In this pungent arousal

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The Full Moon and I

The full moon and I
Ignored each other for months
Beside the harbour
Last night we rose together
And stared one another down

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Fisher Folk

Each July I watch
Blue heron in the shallows
Intent on fishing
Like my brother—tall, thin, still—
But he always brings me trout

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Japanese Lilacs

July startles me
Each year with these still moments
On day after day
Threaded with sweet molecules
Torn from Japanese lilacs

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Why It’s Called “Middle-Age”

I move less and fart more than a little,
And once-rare complaints in joints are refrains
Begun as years bulged around my middle
Like Appalachian foothills edging plains.

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Rain in the Grass

Last night I listened to the rain
Whispering of scythes in the grass.
I lay in bed alone.

I knew the stars had wrapped themselves
Like blades in rags of clouds and fell
As water onto stone.

The restless wind had seemed to stop
Flipping through leaves like pages torn
From days of salt and foam,

Or had turned back to search old ground
For keys to doors slammed shut, again,
On truths of blood and bone.

Last night I listened to the rain
In the grass outside my window.
I lay in bed alone.

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Lilacs Near July

Fucking near July—
Lilacs finally wilt—but
It’s cold where I’ve sat

 

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