Avoiding the Plague in a Drought

We are the words, not the poet.

We are the terms of surrender.

We dream of naming the colors

If our host lives to September.

Afternoon burns the dust-green leaves

Of the irrigated peaches

Of gold and rusty grievances,

Enormous weights on their branches.

We’ve never been spoken aloud,

Never in this exact sequence.

We’re thought’s skeletons, clothing, clouds

Without moisture or existence.

In the corners of the backyard,

Shed leaves confuse the spiderwebs,

While in the house, a fly tries hard

Not to starve close to loaves of bread.