BY HARRY OWEN
Noon’s tidal solstice, and today sweats
under drooling clouds; ants effloresce,
dense and ungraspable as ectoplasm.
It’s hot, brother, hot, as our dune’s stubbled
jowl of forest shrieks and cackles to a sky
you’d hardly know was there.
Now this engorgement of swallows, martins,
swifts as if the world that holds them close
can no longer do so: they scatter
to the air, a detonation of winged seeds
spitting to the boil; cicadas howl
like pious extremists.
You’re feeling uncomfortable, right, ill
at ease, as if somehow you deserve more,
deserve better? You bemoan your lot.
Oh, coward! Oh, sad, sad apologist!
Where did you burst from? Where will you go?
Only from this; only home. Bring on the flies.