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.