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.
