Flap buzz of a June bug
on frayed window screen, swish
of fast cars & 18-wheelers. High scream
of an ambulance—156 smashups
this year.  Two flowering
pears host mourning
doves with their layered greys
like clouds holding rain. I lived

on an island on the face
of a mountain. No neighbors, just the snow
tops of distant mountains & the sheltered
archipelago of Puget Sound flashing. I hobbled
back to the city from that natural
excess & today sit under an unstable
carport waiting for the first
lightning bugs. While locking

the dead bolt I hear infuriated
neighbors in scrap. Screw you,
my neighbor bellows.  Go to
hell, better yet go back
to Birmingham, back to your mommy, a howling
voice threatens. Suddenly I recall
Amanda from the island, who
lived so far into the woods

no one heard her desperate
shrieks when she pleaded
for rescue.  Here in the city
among draff & refuse, I’ve planted
wildflowers, peppers & dill. In this tight
belly of city, I feel a craving to track
& name living things:  Charlene
the alley cat, & Bobby Joe,

the the old Beagle. Tonight a city
worm slides onto my walkway
after summer rain & alongside the blue
noise of cop cars & click-click
of charged power
poles I breath down
deep & inhale the scent
of mimosa and exhaust.