those little hopes for the
weekend with green softness
over the lawn insects

float or dart the breeze
was so important that

it might keep me up tonight
I know it’s not your problem

the pickles came out so well

you know the darkness
catches up before
summer really gets
going I should stop
saying you know you
know anywhoo the

last time we spoke
you were spitting
in the eye of
a hurricane

it’s always the way when the days get less
generous with their light and walking the
dog you see furry legs in the trees and
a noise near or far you choose to ignore

Who I’ve Been Reading

Ada Rae Merwin
T. S. Coleman
Allen Louise Eliot
Edna Limón
Geoffrey D. Graham
Anne Glück
John Kalytiak Davis
Emily Gay
Joshua Sexton Cummings
Jorie Whitman
Gertrude Stein
John Armantrout
William Aimee Wordsworth
Tracy K Marvel
E. E. Ashbery
Wanda Joy Ginsburg
Kimiko Bennett
W. S. Dickinson
John Rich Smith
Ross Berryman
Andrew Keats
Walt Nezhukumatathil
H. Harjo Hahn
Adrienne Chaucer
Olena St. Vincent Millay

Sonnet

with what time is left listen to
air conditioners drop drop drop
on the used tea bag of summer
while the waves of heat hit you on
uneven shards of sidewalk—though
later perhaps you’ll find some sweet
solitude and dream some drip could
bring a forgotten bloom or rare
herb back but the brink keeps creeping
and that green shade so far away—
so retreat to concrete above
the noise but not the heat and make
a quiet in which your fingers
if nothing else may sprout some leaves