Summer’s always tired from the start:
already thin clouds scuff the sky comfortable.
Already, ivory silk lilacs have been reupholstered
in the dried brown velvet 
slightly bleached beneath June’s shining windows for decades
in your grandparents’ house. 
Already, the hot air above the horizon has gathered dust
like the top shelves cob-webbed since you can remember.
The season’s one of patting pockets after something lost,
something shiny and new you swore you just had.