One cannot have a tidy garden and travel midsummer,

so it is overgrown like
unwashed hair, thick and matted.

Like something tightly wound, suddenly released,

the weeds burst forth into a jungle for small children, groundhogs and moles.

Wild grasses, thistles, even locust trees root themselves

between the Amish pastes and brandy wines.

Cilantro, fennel and spinach go to seed

and the sun bakes what is left in its lurches.

I find myself writing: the burn of the sun on your skin,
even for a minute, feels like a forest fire on the flesh.

Melodramatic, perhaps, but it is the first summer I can tangibly measure the earth’s warming
by the sensation of heat against my largest organ.

Finally the sky opens up at various intervals.

A teaser trickle of rain,

a heavy luminous smoky grey poof skirts the sky like a misshapen snake,

and then things go black when the sun has long set

and sparks of lightening come one after the other like fire bursts.

Late morning,

swirls of neon lights,

finches

eight of twelve at once

dine,

carve holes into poppy capsules,

feast on its caviar.

Adorned with sea-green pearls,

the asparagus stalks become thin pine trees
possessed by wind

topple over with the height of their flimsy stilt bodies.

The one in lavish red pearls (I learn) is the only female

among a tribe of males.

Inside each,

a longing

for off

spring.