The sun hovers, perfect lover, an immortelle. I browse among these bleeding hearts, still unrequited. Seasons of passion like this are not suited to harvest. There are plenty of other impressive poems in The Old Direction to Heaven , and not all of them punning the oversniffed roses of romantic poetry. Cool sun, blurry, a scoop of melting sherbet, drips its light over the meadow.
Crickets sing softly, a neighbor's telephone, but no one answers.
The cicadas' alarms have not gone off yet. A freight train clacks metallically toward New Orleans. Eel grass rattles in the dunes, silver, overexposed, a drained monochrome. It gathers the sand in its hairy weir with a gray clasp. My claim to you is the same tentative clasping.