Here's a poem for July - my birth month, month of firecrackers and fireworks, drought and the hypnotic sound of the cicadas.
The lawn gathers mortality in July –
today, a shrew killed
in the midst of its own small predations,
long nose still
as a bluebottle investigates.
Also bird feathers,
the molt strewing them like the burst
of a dark pillow,
most being starling, from the flocks
that rustle in the bull-bay
and flare away at a slammed door.
A cup from Jersey Mike’s.
A cicada shell,
the insect flown from its creeping life.
A single squib
from a string of firecrackers,
green tube patterned
with white flowers.
I tap it against my palm
but what comes out is pale, dry,
the cracklings of this season’s drought,
dust from a lawn that might
erupt on a hot evening,
each blade going off, pop pop pop pop.
from Wake Wake Wake
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