That sun sure knows what it’s doing
When it goes down. Too long
To stop now, our song warns. Desire is
Dead. Long live desire. The bruised
Tomato of late July. The low-top
All-Stars banging in the dryer. Even
The cicadas are tired of having to
Repeat themselves. Sugar, you have
A favorite drinking glass because you know
One cathedral day you will break it. Like you,
The forsythia’s long gone. Our allowed
Yellows: lemon twist, timecards. Hard
Pats of butter on a cold plate. Later & late
There is only prep & an endless pouring:
Bourbon, confession, branch, a body
Loosened from its own work. Humidity
A dream rain has about all its teeth
Falling out. All our punched hours,
Love. If you don’t have to go
Home, then where. We are asking
For a loan, Orpheus says, & Hell
Signs its name on a bar napkin.
