Moths flit aimless because
every bulb is bright as
a moon, tides confused
and gravity rattled.
 
My coat snags on the rose cane;
not a single bud in four years
so I cut it to the ground.
 
Bees continue their dying.
 
I gesture at the stack
of unopened letters.
 
Again the river falls to a record low,
trees along the bank twisted by thirst,
wild wire of roots gasping at air.
 
I change the bedding so
it matches the season.
 
Mud too thick for gilled fish.
 
I take the last ripe pear,
slice it with the last clean knife,
and eat it all myself.
 
Little fists clench
dirt and grass, lift
up fragments of
a patchy fleeing kingdom.
 
I give you chamomile,
bring the salt.
 
Less stars count among
this rude crowd of light.
 
Heat rages in my veins,
a permanent fever.
 
Plastic collects along chainlink,
tatting at storm’s edge.
 
I let you win this round.
 
A smear of dead mosquito
marring the dashboard,
we head north.