Suburban Landscape, Summer
Me, young and girlish, flesh not yet mourning.
A brittle twist and up blooms my yearning.
Turn me now, wrench my back, I’ll pop a dream
of candied purring. The neighbor men bear
down on the mowers’ fragile gaskets
And dream of sex while the weight of caskets
Is a memory stain on their shoulders,
Oh, the heaving of their fat dead brothers
Into the yawning rectangles of dirt.
And, yet beyond reason, they still flirt with
thawing, thawing, thawing. And I’m nothing
but a filament for youth’s fine moth-wing.
