August in March

Tell the dog-day evening not to linger
for we must get to the darkest dark
where a gray question pulls harshly
beating about, and the quaint house
of paintings dusted over, flecked
in the hot insect excrement, bevel
posing as archways in the gloom.
Night can right all off-kilter memories
callus hands will realign the pelvic
bone, give a spine velvet bedding
to wrap around the wound. Let the
garbage man’s clattering wake you
once the tending has ceased din
licking pool gules and boysenberry
the blood and bruise now inside
a throat. Jacket up the palpitating
heart, the one where anxious aims
a gun. Night tells you the tale of
Babylon, as the infant light clatters
against the shades hushingly still
and the words rupture apart like
blooming daffodils, the language
as a symphony fleeing each instru-
ment, splitting over the bulbous hill
with brassy calls lit up as candles
waving lively in the distant grasses.
Night queries if you understand,
if the wet hours have reconstituted
blinkered cities and deserting lands.
You rise at noon with begging arms
yet, with pleasure, lift the wan blind
and shimmer with a breath that sees.
Let the new art swim forward violent
as a storm to break against stone.