← v14n2, Fall 2015
Poetry · Volume 14, Number 2

Two Weeks

Slatted lap of an Adirondack chair

blushes with leaves. I re-coil

the garden hose, nasal slip

as summer empties out, gloves my hand.

How still so warm?

Sun-salted tale, the lawn

beds down, oblivious to sorrow,

anger, the joy I confess to one who—

wherever I am. And whatever

hides in the bamboo

I’ve learned is not evergreen

will clatter through, or not,

beneath a gyre of black shawls.

Chemical fire of chrysanthemums;

the hospital of any hour.

Odor love opens with its fist.