Outside, the yard guys shave off the oldest of the lawn’s growth.
Inside a vase on the mantle, soft plinks I couldn’t quite place for an hour
till I peeked: a dying bug’s last attempts to flip itself right side up.
The cats already have fleas. It’s only May. The sun seems resolute
in the same way teenagers are, sure it will live forever. As far
as we’re concerned, it may as well. It gets hotter day by day.
With one finger we pull down Earth’s sunglasses to get a better
look, then strip them off entirely, dazzled by the blaze. Youth!
Beauty! The air crackles with fecundity, bees bumbling out of roses
like horny frat guys buzzed on a never-ending stream of Natural Light.
As for me, I threw away my face creams and serums. My surface dries
and cracks. I thirst for milk and honey. The peonies in their water glass
bloomed for two weeks till they rotted, fell to pieces, some buds
blossoming meanwhile, but the last two tight balls stayed stubbornly
shut, keeping their sweetness for themselves. I don’t blame them.
At night, we nestle close something like that. We draw up through tangled limbs
what’s left to drink from deep in the cool of our sheets. We sleep in this reprieve.