the earth itself
loses its scent, and who’s
awake to notice?
the earth itself
loses its scent, and who’s
awake to notice?
lines leading into
the murk—lapping currents, scent
of creosote
poets might connect
today’s weather with weeping
but whose tears are these?
thinking aleady
of winter—this gilded glow
polished thin
this time—
proliferations of leaves,
no tongue among them
whether
turning into fitful rain
or returning
the hottest day—
so far—rages on like
blasting static
just me
and some strange dog barking
at each other
late in one season,
early in another—sun
slipping sideways
choosing
suitable umbrellas
before some rain