Hot Minute, and: Postcard from Home

Hot Minute

So bright nowon this shadelesscul-de-sacof time,my near-bald neighborat his mailboxwipes his browand sighsas light's unveiledvendettascalds our ill-usedfescue black.There's notone clement letterin these stacksof bills and adsfor short-term,red-hot sales,and not a wispof rescuethrough the stalewhite skywhich only retailssweat and lack.

A breath agothe whole hale streetwas greenedfrom curbto bungalow,a glazy-sheenedArcadia,a burbwhere even cynicsbeamed and elsewhere's highswere quarantinedin haze . . .

Now rarely seemsso hot a minute,though we're caughtto braiseforever in it.

Postcard from Home

The birds in our county were beesand the bees were rough nuggets of light.The green ponds we soaked in were treesand the thunderheads' bellies were white.

The sky was a bowl of pink grapefruit.Your house was all threshold and eaves.When a distance consumed and erased you,the kudzu here shuddered and seethed.

Remember June's scorchy pervasions?The chill only sweat can achieve?The fires at our feet were impatiens.Through the legs of our shorts ran a breeze.

Wherever your luster has blown to,wherever your ebbing proceeds,there's a hollow that's filled you and known you,a nowhere that saunters and preens.

In the sunflower's eye stands a hornet.In the stray's empty socket, a flea.In a brilliance where vision is forfeit,my eye lays its hand on your knee.