A frantic ant line of blackberry seeds separates
             me from summer. I’ve been stargazing

At fireflies again, convincing myself they’re just
             the dead-bodied containers of some other ghost-given suns.

I’m stuck in a spring-back loop, snacking on trash
            even the raccoons have pawed past in rueful

Distain. But the weeds are fevered so I know the solstice beckons,
            hip-high and barreling toward the Fourth of one more July.

The air smells sweet, like satisfaction &
            the hydration of watermelon. Like warm earth

Well before the rot out of fall. And, somehow, the sun shines on –
            from yet another god-driven angle. A followspot

Pointing me out in a lineup of disbelievers.
            Sweat beads, pulsating. A trickle.

Come hither, it whispers, thick-set and steady. You don’t have
            to do anything. Summer’s already ready for you.